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THE 


ONE GOOD GEEST 


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THE 


ONE GOOD GUEST 




L. 




B. /WALFORD 


AUTHOR OF 


“MR. SMITH,” “THE BABY’S GRANDMOTHER,” 
“A MERE CHILD,” ETC., ETC. 


/.FR ' 


NEW YORK 


7 


■^s^y 


LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 

15 EAST SIXTEENTH STREET 

1892 



Copyright, 1892 

By LONGMANS. GREEN, AND CO. 



TROW DIRECTORY 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEK I. P*uE 

Ida and I are Old Enough Now for Anything ” . 1 

CHAPTEK 11. 

‘‘The Whole Thing was a Dead Failure” . . .14 

CHAPTER III. 

Reaction and Recovery 31 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Snow-plough 45 

CHAPTER V. 

General Thistleblow’s Discovery . . . .66 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Drawing-room in Mayfair 77 

CHAPTER VII. 


“Your Uncle and I would Quite Approve 


1)2 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEB VIII. 

PAGE 

Frozen Ponds . 

CHAPTER IX. 

Putting on a Game-bag 124 

CHAPTER X. 

A Sportsman’s Trick 135 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Contents of the Post-bag • 155 

CHAPTER XII. 

“Why does Ida not Come ? ” 172 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Correspondence Tampered With 192 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Pink Dress Scorned 208 

CHAPTER XV. 

The Solitary Legatee . . . ' . . . . 228 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Home-coming Marred 242 

CHAPTER XVII. 

“I Had to Do My Duty,” said Tom .... 2C0 


CONTENTS. vii 

CHAPTER XYIII. 

PAGE 

Breakfast at a Club 277 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Colonel Wallace’s Testimony ..... 296 

CHAPTER XX. 

Conclusion 313 


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THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“ Tell me, ye sons of Phoebus, what is this 
Which all admire, but few, too few, possess ? 

A virtue ’tis to ancient maids unknown. 

And prudes who spy all faults except their own. 

Say, Wyndham, if ’tis possible to tell 
What is the thing in which you most excel V 
Hard is the question, for in all you please. 

Yet your good nature is your noblest praise.” 

Lyttleton. 


CHAPTER 1. 

IDA AND I ARE OLD ENOUGH NOW FOR ANY- 
THING.” 

It was a very important affair, the assem- 
bling of that shooting party at Duckhill Manor. 

Nothing of the kind had been attempted 
since the demise of the old squire a dozen 
years before ; and it was only after much dis- 
cussion, and many timid j^ros and cons, that 
invitations had been issued in the present in- 
stance. 


2 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


What if people would not come ? What 
if they thought it ‘‘ cheek ” their being asked ? 
What if the shooting did not please them? 
AVhat if they did not please each other ? 

These Avere the questions which four youth- 
ful serious countenances put to one another at 
intervals, and for Avhich no one of the four 
could ever find a satisfactory reply. 

Hosts and hostesses to the manner born — or 
even to the manner bred — may smile, nay, 
laugh outright, at such simplicity ; but when 
they learn that the young folks to wliom the 
matter Avas, after a fashion, one of life and 
death, Avere none of them much over twenty 
years of age, that they were ambitious, high- 
spirited, and independent — Avhile at the same 
time forced to confront their ignorance of the 
world and its ways at every turn — it will be 
felt that after all, their anxiety and apprehen- 
sions were not altogether ill-founded. 

Here they were, without father, or mother, 
or elderly relations — without guardian or su- 
perior, Avithout any experience to fall back up- 
on, any wiseacre to umpire among conflicting 
opinions, or to close Avith authority debatable 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


3 


conjectures — here they were, a Happy, healthy, 
leaderless crew, rejoicing in their freedom, and 
confident of their luck. 

Tom, the eldest, had done with Cambridge, 
and Ida, next of age, with Paris and Brussels. 
The younger girls, respectively fourteen and 
eleven, had been set free by the death of an 
aunt ; and, as has been said, it was the opinion 
of one and all that thenceforth they could mail’ 
age themselves, and live very happily together 
at the old home, without the necessity for 
either supervision or authority. 

Jenny’s and Louie’s lessons were arranged 
for at the vicarage — even that difiiculty was 
disposed of. 

Of course Ida and I are old enough now 
for anything,” said Tom. 

It must not be supposed, however, that be- 
cause our young people resolved to be a law 
unto themselves, and beholden to nobody for 
advice or counsel, that they had any idea of 
running riot at Duckhill. 

So far was this from being the case, that it 
would have been difficult to find a more seri- 
ously disposed cpiartet. 


4 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


liife, as they took it, was surcharged with 
importance and responsibility. The very fact 
that they had been early left orphans, and 
had been permitted by easy-going guardians to 
direct their own affairs, had weighed them 
down, and set the stamp of dignity upon their 
most trifling actions. 

They had been wont, even as children, to 
hold momentous conversations with one another 
anent their movements, or requirements. If 
any change had to be effected in the life of one 
or other, the whole four would write, talk, 
telegraph, travel, as though the world depended 
on it. 

Behind backs their elders, it must be con- 
fessed, were hugely diverted by this innocent 
pomposity on tlie part of poor Tom Barnet’s 
family. Tom, they told each other, had been 
as scatter-brained a fellow as you could meet 
with, and his wife had not' been noted either 
for sense or attainments. Whence, then, came 
these precocious children, who needed neither 
guiding hand nor restraining arm, and whose 
harrowing anxiety to do the right thing un- 
der every conceivable circumstance was an 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


actual rebuke to people wbo took life more 
easily ? 

To be sure it was a wonderful comfoi’t to all 
concerned to have such young people in the 
family. 

“ A fine young fellow, my ward, Tom Bar- 
net,” old General Thistleblow would pronounce 
at his club. “ Ton my word, he’s a credit to 
one. Gives no trouble. Can steer his own 
helm ; and is as unlikely to make ducks and 
drakes of his property as any youngster I 
know.” But aside the speaker would occa- 
sionally wink the eye, and sidle round to a con- 
fidential ear. A thundering prig, you know. 
No more like his father — bless my soul ! what 
a laugh poor Tom had ! And what glorious 
times we used to have at that old place ! I’d 
give something to see Duckhill once more 
what it was then. I don’t take to these mon- 
strous proper-behaved young men ; no, I don’t; 
and that’s what this boy of good old Tom’s is 
turning out ” — slowly — “ a • starched-up, lan- 
tern-jawed, solemn young ass, whose very boot 
heels squeak propriety.” 

There were, however, those who thought no 


6 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


worse of the young man because lie was held 
thus cheap by a not over reputable man of the 
world. It was suspected that the ward had got 
the upper hand of the guardian, and the ward 
rose in public estimation by having done so. 
Propriety such as Thistleblow scoffed at, sits 
gracefully on the owner of six thousand a year. 

At twenty* one of age, Tom Barnet — the new 
Tom Barnet — had entered upon his patrimony, 
and the usual festivities had taken place. 
Everything had been done in rigorous confor- 
mation to established rule and precedent ; noth- 
ing had been overlooked ; and no one had been 
neglected. 

But Tom himself had had little to do with 
the arrangements. It had seemed to him that 
until he had duly taken possession of his king- 
dom, and assumed the administration of his 
affairs, it was not his place to direct and au- 
thorise. Accordingly, in an elaborate ej)istle, 
which was stored up as a treasure thenceforth, 
all details of the important event were harmed 
over to the care of the steward and the farm 
bailiff, in whose hands the young squire unre- 
servedly placed himself. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


7 


If. however, these worthies entertained any 
idea of taking such humility as the key-note of 
the future of Duckbill, time speedily dispelled 
the idea. The same sense of the fitness of things 
which had made the new proprietor passively 
grateful and neutral as the recipient of univer- 
sal goodwill, directly the occasion was over, 
stirred him up to be actively at work poking 
his brisk young nose into every hole and cor- 
nel*. 

It seemed to him that he was a great man, 
and that the estate of Diickhill was a great es- 
tate. The thought was solemnising. He had 
absolutely no consciousness of being fiattered 
and uplifted by a sense of his own importance ; 
he had no idea that the weiglit of his re- 
sponsibilities made him tread on air. 

As for his sisters — but the sisters deserve 
their own word in passing. 

Naturally and properly Tom was all the 
world to them, and his opinions, decisions, tastes, 
likings and dislikings, a matter of first-rate 
consequence. 

Yet, although overshadowed, the girls were 
not annihilated by their big brother. Ida, in 


8 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


particular, held that she also had a sphere — a 
minor sphere — but a sphere all the same. 

She was Miss Barnet. It was a grievous of- 
fence if an envelope were by any chance ad- 
dressed “ Miss Ida Barnet.” 

True, there were maiden aunts, and the aunts 
were also Miss Barnets, but as would be anx- 
iously explained to Jenny and Louie, the good 
ladies were not Miss Barnets of Duckbill Man- 
or; they had been once, but they were not now 
the daughters of the house; the elder of the 
two was not, as Ida was, its reigning mis- 
tress. 

A sense of the dignity accruing to her from 
this blest position had swelled the breast of the 
speaker as she summed up the case, and ar- 
rived at the all-important decision a few months 
before our story opens. Jenny and Louie, as 
in duty bound, had nodded assent, and all three 
had drawn a breath in unison, and paused to 
consider the ground whereon they trod. 

Ida’s brain was active, Jenny’s and Louie’s 
were acquiescent. The three were excellent 
friends and co-workers in the scheme for making 
Duckbill Manor all that it ought to be, a house 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 9 

with a position, a centre of attraction for neigh- 
bours, a rallying point for relations. 

“ I think we can do it,” pronounced Tom, the 
four being iu council. “ But it will be no easy 
thing to do. We shall have to be aiofully 
careful. We shall have to think everything 
well over. We must not give people a handle 
to say anything.'''^ 

‘‘ Of course not,” assented Ida, shaking her 
]3retty head. Ida was a pretty girl, and had 
in particular a prettily shaped head which she 
was in the habit of sliaking when it behooved 
her to be especially wise. 

“ If we are to live all alone here, we must 
make up our minds to be just twenty times as 
precise and particular as if we had a board of 
guardians over us. If we had that, we might 
be a great deal more free.” 

Oh, don’t let us have that — oh, Ida, you 

said ”, Jenny, the next sister, had missed the 

point of the argument ; “oh, Ida,” she now be- 
gan to wail, “ you are not wanting to persuade 
us we should be better off with guardians ? ” 

“ Nonsense, child ; who said we should be 
better off?” rejoined the other, impatiently. 


10 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


I merely said we should be more free — and 
who wants to be more free ? Tom and I don’t ; 
and as for you and Louie it would be very bad 
for you and Louie, very bad indeed ” — with a 
frown of a denouncing prophetess. “ You must 
remember that, girls. If you are to be allowed 
to go on without a governess, only doing your 
lessons at the vicarage, and coming home every 
day to luncheon, and so on, you must not think 

you are to run wild the rest of the time ” 

We shall have our lessons to prepare.” 

“ But even when your lessons are prepared,” 
— the elder sister was resolute that there 
should be a complete understanding on the 
subject — “you must still recollect that you are 
only schoolroom girls. Schoolroom girls, and 
not expected to appear in the drawing-room 
when visitors come, and not ” 

“ Aren’t we to have tea with you and 
Tom ? ” 

Ida looked at her brother, who in his turn 
looked back at her. Two pairs of round eyes 
regarded them both. 

“ The little girls did come in at five o’clock 
at Stoneham,” murmured Tom, suggestively. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


11 


A vision of liiniself and Ida alone in the 
great cheery hall where tea was wont to be 
served, and of two poor banished little faces 
sitting drearily down to a miserable little meal 
in a far-off wing, rose before his eyes. “ I — 
what do you think, Ida ? ” 

Ida was hesitating also. 

“ Of course I should like to have them,” she 
began. 

“ Oh, do have us ; please do have us.” 

But you would not even wish us to have 
you, if it were not the right thing to do,” con- 
tinued the elder sister, quelling with a glance 
the outburst. “ We are merely considering — 
Tom and I — whether or not we ought, for your 
sakes, to have you. Don’t suppose it is a ques- 
tion of liking.” 

“ Mary and Charlotte always have tea with 
their mamma.” 

Are you sure ? How do you know ? ” 

“Oh, they said so ; they have told us often ; 
they go in directly after lessons ; and the gov- 
erness has her tea by herself on a tray in the 
schoolroom. She prefers it, and Lady De 
Kigueur thinks it a good thing for Mary and 


12 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Charlotte to have a change, and to see the 
people who come.” 

“You are quite sure they are allowed in 
when people come ? ” demanded Tom in search- 
ing accents. 

“ Quite — quite sui’e. Mary told us, and so 
did Charlotte. Didn’t they, Louie? Didn’t 
they both ? And they said they looked for- 
ward to it all day, for it was such fun, espec- 
ially in the shooting season. And they hurry 
on with their lessons when it gets near five 
o’clock,” 

“ If Lady De Rigueur allows it, I sujipose it 
must be all right? ” said Tom, to Ida. 

“ Certainly — yes — I should — think so ; I 
should think we might. Well, I am very 
glad,” assented the second in command quite 
kindly and pleasantly. “ I had thought of it, 
but really I did not feel sure ; and you know, 
girls, we are not to be different in any way 
from other people ; however, now we know 
that it is donei!'' and both Ida and Tom looked 
cheerful and relieved, while the young ones 
almost danced with joy. 

This may serve as a specimen of the consul- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


13 


tations which went on continually at the man- 
or while the new life had yet to be adjusted. 

But at the time our little story opens, such 
consultations had, for the most part, borne 
fruit, and the youthful party had settled down, 
fenced in by hedgerows of bristling rules and 
regulations, having taken every step onward 
with the utmost deliberation and precision, to 
the edification of all about them, and some- 
times, it must be owned, not a little to the se- 
cret amusement of a world unaccustomed to 
such reverence from such young disciples. 

And now we come to the shooting party, the 
great yearly function which every ancient ti*a- 
dition and association demanded of Duckhill 
Manor. 


/ 


CHAPTER II. 

“the whole TKma was a dead failuee.” 

The very day after the party assembled, 
down came the rain. 

Scarce!}^ had the last portmanteau been 
carted up from the station, and the last guest 
been shown to his room, ere the south-west 
wind, which had been sending forth sundry 
puffs and swirls throughout the day, settled 
down into a steady assault of turret and case- 
ment, against which every creaking doorway 
sent forth its protest. Heavy showers dashed 
against the window-panes between whiles. 

Next morning it became evident that no 
shooting could take j^lace for twenty -four 
hours, at any rate. 

Still, Duckhill Manor could stand a siege of 
the elements for twenty-four hours. There 
was a picture gallery, a library, and a billiard- 
room. The ladies who had l)een lured down 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


15 


to a remote, and to them uninteresting 2:)art of 
the country, by husbands intent on sport, with 
fair promises of good quarters, did not at the 
first blush feel that they had much to com* 
jfiain of — the husbands themselves took stock 
of each other and were tolerably quiescent. 

But the next day, and the next, and the 
next, brought no happy change. 

Then it became evident to the unfortunate 
young host and hostesses that there was only 
one guest among the many present to Avhom 
they could turn for sympathy, from whom 
they had any hope of philosophy. General 
Thistleblow was blowing ofE his indignation in 
snorts suggestive of a railway engine. Colo- 
nel Jessop was spiteful and malignant. The 
younger men, with one exception, gloomy and 
taciturn. Maurice Stafford alone was abso- 
lutely untainted by the prevailing discontent. 
He not only said nothing — he looked nothing 
unpleasant. He came down to breakfast morn- 
ing after morning cheerful, hopeful, serene — 
yet unobtrusive. He did not torment others 
by his optimism. 

There is a certain aggressive jollity of de- 


16 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


meanour which, especially when it develops into 
facetiousness, is more intolerable to ill-used man- 
kind and womankind, than would be the worst 
fit of the sulks. One feels that it is forced and 
unnatural — consequently impertinent. 

But the philosophy of Maurice Stafford put 
nobody in the wrong ; he listened to covert 
growls from every side ; assented to the Con- 
founded nuisance ! ” of the sportsman, and the 
“ Terrible disappointment ! ” of the sportsman’s 
wife ; he accompanied scouts to this outlook 
and that ; shook his head as knowingly as they 
did ; shrugged his shoulders ; raised his eye- 
brows ; lurched off to the billiard-room when 
others so lurched ; went the round of the win- 
dows again before luncheon ; owned that the 
chances of out-door improvement grew less 
with every hour ; and finally entered the din- 
ing-room, and ate his luncheon as unconcern- 
edly as though fortune had smiled upon every 
aspiration of his breast. 

Such a man was indeed a godsend at such a 
moment. Hostesses do not in their hearts like 
black looks, and muttered imprecations direct- 
ed at their own skies and winds. They may 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


17 


affect to sympathise ; may declare that the 
weather is really “ too bad ” ; that the whole 
thing is shockingly unfortunate,” — “ cruel,” — 
“ most annoying and tiresome ” ; but if you 
will believe me, dear young gentleman with 
the thundercloud on your brow, they don’t like 
that thundercloud. A hundred to one they 
are internally calling you names — not flattering 
names ; they are anathematising your want of 
manners and ill-humour, as heartily as you in 
your coarser phraseology are swearing at the 
rudeness of the elements. 

Believe this, and you will comprehend why 
it was that Maurice Stafford was asked to stay 
on at Duckhill Manor, when at length, the 
shooting having had to be finally abandoned 
by dint of the rain turning to sleet, and the 
sleet to snow, the unfortunates who had been 
thus mocked by fortune fairly turned tail, and 
made off to happier, or at all events, drier 
hunting grounds. 

Maurice alone — (they all called him “ Mau- 
rice ” among themselves ; he had “ a kind of 
Mauricey face,” the little girl said) — Maurice 

alone, was asked to stay on. 

2 _ 


18 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


‘‘We must let this lot go, or they would 
never forgive us,” Tom Barnet sought out his 
sister for private consultation. “They are dis- 
gusted, as it is, but they would hate us a long 
way more if we made them stay on. For it 
means business, this frost does. We are in for 
it ; and it’s beastly having to go on and on 
making excuses, and telling lies about the ba- 
rometer. It is 7iot going to thaw, and that’s 
all about it. Jenkins says it will ‘freeze 
like old boots ’ again to-night ; and it will 
freeze to-morrow, and the next day, and the 
next. We are regularly in for it, Jenkins says. 
A nice mess we have made of this party. I 
am glad they are going, eh, Ida ? ” lowering 
his tone. “ Deuced glad, aren’t you ? A pee- 
vish lot ! As if ive could help the weather ! 
But I say, we’ll keep Maurice, sha’n’t we ? I 
suppose it would be all right to keep Maurice, 
would it not ? A nice chap, and so quiet, and 
so aiofully well behaved. There could be no 
harm in keeping Maurice on for a bit, could 
there ? ” 

Ida looked thoughtful. 

“ The only thing is ” she began. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


19 


“ Well ? ” demanded her brother. 

“ It mi^ht look a little strans^e.” 

o o 

‘‘ Strange ? How strange ? Of course if it 
had been another sort of fellow, but Maurice is 
so uncommonly quiet, and so — so cheerful, and 
— harmless.” 

“Yes — yes.” 

“ I do want a fellow like that sometimes,” 
pleaded poor Tom. “ Of course I’m not saying 
its lonely — and we made up our minds to it 
even if it were — but still, when you get a good 
fellow like Maurice Stalford — and such an in- 
otfensive chap, too ” 

“ Oh, I think you might really keep him,” 
said Ida. “ Yes, I am sure you might,” with 
decision. “ As you say, he is perfectly inoifen- 
sive, and you know we are going to have some 
more people almost immediately, so that we 
shall not be alone.” 

“ That’s it. We shall not be alone. I can 
say Ave are expecting another lot — and that as 
he is here, he can stay on here. I’ll put it to 
him.” 

Maurice could scarcely help laughing at the 
way it was put to him. 


20 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


All the same, I think I am exj^ected to go,” 
said he, however. 

“ Expected ? By whom ? By me — or my 
sisters ? ” 

“ By everyone, I meant,” said Maurice ; “ by 
the field generally. Thistleblow has invited 
me to dine at his club, the Vernons have asked 
for my direction, and the Clarkes have in- 
fpiired about my train. I am to travel with 
the Clarkes. Lady Sophia has even taken the 
trouble to inform me at what hour I shall ar- 
rive at St. Pancras.” 

Like her cheek ! What the dickens is it 
to her when you arrive anywhere ? ” cried the 
young host, hot at this infringement of his 
rights. It was his place to inform guests de- 
parting upon such subjects, did the guests re- 
quire information. “ I never heal'd of such im- 
pudence ! The fact is, you know,” persuasive- 
ly, “ that we want you to stop on — we do in- 
deed. This shooting party has been a dead 
failure, and the sooner it comes to an end the 
better. But don’t you be badgered into going 
away, just because Lady Sophia means you to 
go. This is not Lady Sophia’s house ; you are 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


21 


our guest, not liers ; and I should hope my sis- 
ters and I are competent to — we surely have 
some right to a say in the matter.” 

“ It is really most awfully kind of you,” said 
Maurice, musingly. “ Of course you must 
know that I should like to stay ” — and of 
course it ended in his staying. 

“But, upon my word, I thought those 
Clarkes would have had him along with them 
to the very last moment,” confided Tom to his 
sisters presently. “ What they wanted with 
our Maurice, goodness knows, for he is not 
everybody’s bargain, and not the Clarkes’ sort 
at all. Directly they are back in town Lady 
Sophia will drop him like a hot potato. He is 
too good a sort for her. He’s not the least the 
sort I’ve met at her house. She simply wanted 
him because he is our man ; I don’t believe she 
had a single other reason.” 

“ How did he escape ? What did he say ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I don’t remember. 
Now that I think of it, I can’t recollect that 
he said anything. He just looked her in the 
face and smiled. You know Maurice’s foolish 
smile? It did for her ladyship better than 


22 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


any words could have done. I expect she felt 
herself snubbed ; and I am jolly well glad she 
did. She only wanted him to go because she 
did not want him to stay ; and she only did 
not want him to stay because she wanted to 
break up the party, and then go away and 
slang us.” 

“ That was it,” assented Ida, “ that was it, 
Tom, exactly. 1 know we made a few mis- 
takes, but it was not her place to ferret them 
out. And you have no idea how rude she was. 
She always waited till I was alone to be her 
rudest. And Colonel Jessop was no better. 
Horrid little wretch ! He even began abusing 
the dinner ! And he said the billiard balls 
weren’t round, Tom. Did you ever hear any- 
thing more ridiculous, moi*e absurd \ How 
can billiard balls be anything but round ? ” 

“ They are a little gone,” owned Tom, some- 
what crestfallen. “They want pailng, and I 
ought to have had it done, but I forgot. What 
a little beast to go and find it out ! I hope he 
didn’t go sneaking to the other men. Did any 
of them hear him? Maurice, anyway, would 
never have found it out for himself.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


23 


“ Or, if lie liacl, lie would never liave said 
so.” 

I wish Jessop had not noticed that,” mut- 
tered poor Tom with increasing discomfiture. 

It was stupid of us to forget those balls. 
Stupid of me, I mean, for of course you girls 
could not be expected to know. But I did 
know — only I never once thought of it ; I was 
so taken up with other things. Jessop ought 
to have been kept out of the billiard-room. He 
is nothing of a player, and I believe would 
never have set foot in it but for this beastly 
weather. By Jove ! look at the rain now ! It 
is rainino; and snowins: at once ! I never saw 
anything like it! To take this week of all 
weeks in the year to come down like this ! ” 
walking gloomily to the window. “ The whole 
thing has been a dead failure ” — (how sick his 
auditor had grown of the phrase !) — “ as dead 
a failure as a thing could be ; and they took 
care we should know^ as much. I suppose they 
will go away now, and say we ought never to 
have had the cheek to attempt it. I tliink I 
hear them — I know exactly what they will call 
us. Lady Sophia ” 


24 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Lady Sophia ! Pooh ! Lady Sophia be — 
I wish 1 were a man to say it ! Lady Sophia 
indeed ! ” Ida, with a bright patch on either 
cheek, was tossing about chin and curls, and 
every unpleasant memory in one burst of glo- 
rious disdain. “ What need we care for Lady 
Sophia ? We are as good as Lady Sophia any 
day,” cried she. I don’t mean to be downed 
by Lady Sophia, or Lady Anybody, I can tell 
you, Tom. Let me catch Lady Sopliia telling 
tales — why, dear me ! other people as well as 
we have had shooting parties spoilt by bad 
weather ! Why should we take it to heart more 
than they ? Why should it matter more for us 
than for them ? ” 

“ Because it was our first,” said Tom, sadly. 

And because we are not supposed to know 
about parties, and things. It would have been 
such a score for us if our first had gone ojff well. 
I’m sure none of them expected it would — and 
now, you see, they were right. If we had 
scored a big success ! ” 

“Well, we didn’t score a big success, and 
that’s all about it. Don’t let us bother our 
heads any more.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


25 


“ Why, I thought you cared as much as I. 
I thought we all did,” his plaintive accents 
heralding the aj)proach of a grievance. 

cared — of course I cared. And if we 
had been to blame — if we had got the wrong 
people — or if the shooting had been bad — I 
should have been as much ashamed as any 
one; but I don’t see,” quoth Ida, resolutely, 
“ why you should go on about ‘ a dead failure ’ 
with such a melancholy face, when it was only 
the weather which spoilt the whole. The 
iveather ! What is the weather ? What had 
we to do with the weather ? ” 

Why, that is what I said to Maurice.” 

“To Maurice? Surely he was not abusing 
us.” 

“ Never said a nasty word.” 

“ No,” said Ida, still more energetically than 
before. “ That he has not — at least I know he 
has not to me. That is why I like this Mau- 
rice. He has been so — so kind about it all. I 
am sure he is sorry for us and understands 
how we feel. I know I was often thankful to 
see him come into the room : I felt as if we 
had one friend at least.” 


2G 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


“ By Jove ! So did I. That was exactly 
how I felt. If Maurice had only been a little 
older — if he had been a man of sixty, he could 
have stood up for us to that supercilious old 
Thistleblow, and bossed our side against him 
and Jessop — but anyhow he did his best.” 

“ And I do think we ought to feel grateful 
to him.” 

“Well, we do feel grateful. We should not 
have asked him to stay on if we hadn’t. He 
was our one good guest.” 

“ You are sure he likes to stay, Tom ? ” 

“ He was pleased to be asked, anyway. 
And — oh, y^s, I think he’s all right : he is not 
quite such a fool as he looks.” 

“ Tom!” 

“ He has rather a foolish, innocent face, you 
know. But he is not a fool ; not by any man- 
ner of means ; and he certainly need not have 
stayed unless he chose. He has plenty of 
houses to go to — that I know. Not that he 
told me himself, but it dropped out somehow. 
He knows lots of people. Thistleblow asked 
me what family he belonged to, as he seemed 
to know so many good people. And Jessop 


THE VNE GOOD GUEST. 


27 


was sniffing out about liim too. It seemed odd 
that I could not tell them more — but as a mat- 
ter of fact, you know, Ida, we have only met 
Maurice at Lady De Rigueur’s, and taken it 
for granted he was all right from that.” 

Of course,” said Ida, decisively. “ Quite 
enough too. We have known Lady De Ri- 
gueur ever since we were children, and as we 
must have some one to go by, we could not 
have a better person. If Lady De Rigueur 
had Maurice staying in the house, surely we 
may have him.” 

And Maurice is really awfully nice.” 

“ He is just delightful.” Jenny •sprang into 
the room. “ Isn’t he ? We call him ‘ Maurice ’ 

to his face now ; we ” 

“ No ? You don’t ? ” said Tom, hastily. 
“ Oh, I say, I wish you hadn’t,” looking really 
distressed. “ Ida, why did you let them ? ” 

“ I did not let them, I had nothing to do 
with it.” But the speaker looked undeniably 
guilty. “The V\^ay was this, Tom. We do 

call him ‘ Maurice ’ behind his back ” 

“ That’s nothing. Call him what you please 
behind his back — • — ” 


28 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


“But he heard us — that was it — that was 
the fun,” and Jenny’s little shrieking voice was 
uplifted into a still higher key. “ He heard 
us, and couldn’t pretend he didn’t — for we 

were regularly in his arms ” 

“ Good Heavens ! What does she mean, Ida ? ” 
“Let me tell, oh, let me tell,” Ida had no 
chance of answering for the delinquent. “ It 
was just this way, Tom. Louie and I were in 
the gallery — it was that dreadfully wet day, I 
mean the wettest of all the wets — and we had 
nothing to do, and so we were talking about 
the people. And I said — no, Louie said first — 
‘ I like Maurice the best,’ and then I said, ^ So 
do I. I like Maurice best too.' And then 
I think it was me said, ‘ Ida likes Maurice too ’ 
— and there — all at once was Maurice himself, 
and he looked rather funny, and as if he 
wanted to stop us — but I don’t believe he had 
heard a word except his name, for I don’t be- 
lieve he Gould^ and ” 

“ You never told me this before,” burst in 
Ida, with a flaming cheek. “ You never told 
me what you had been saying. You only said 
he had heard you call him ‘ Maurice.’ ” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


29 


“ That was all he did hear : I am sure it was 
all. For he made fun at once, saying he had 
caught us calling him ‘ Maurice,’ and he wished 
we would do it to his face, for everyone called 
him ‘ Maurice’ — and all sorts of things like that. 
And you know, Tom, he has a sort of ^ Mauricey ’ 
face,” concluded the little girl, anxiously. 

It was on this occasion that the remark ^vas 
made. 

Tom remained silent. 

“ Ida said we might,” insinuated Jenny, 
after a minute’s pause. 

“ I said I thought — after all, Jenny is only 
fourteen and Louie eleven, I told them that I 
thought — when they asked what I thought — I 
told them that perhaps for them — for school- 
girls with short frocJcs and hair down!!'* stam- 
mered Ida, with a struggle for impressive 
conviction which did not hide a certain con- 
sciousness of having been culpably weak — “ I 
thought, perhaps, as the mistake had been 
made, it would be better now to do as they 
were bid, and make no fuss. If Maurice had 
been another kind of man, it would have been 
different.” 


30 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


“ I should hope so.” But the big brother 
was still dubious. “ Don’t let anyone else 
hear you,” he frowned. Mind that,” shaking 
his head at the now subdued and penitent 
Jenny — “ and don’t do it oftener than you can 
help. It is not the thing at all to be calling 
fellows by their names — not for nice girls — and 
though you and Louie are not grown up yet, 
still you have to show that you mean to be nice 
girls some day. I wouldn’t have had this 
happen ” 

But here the speaker came to a sudden halt. 
The blue eyes in front of him were beginning 
to fill, and the corners of a rosy mouth to turn 
down. 

'‘Well, well, I daresay it doesn’t really 
matter — much. Never mind, you know. Don’t 
— I say — don’t cry, you know. After all, as 
Ida says, it’s only Maurice. Come, you lit- 
tle goose,” pulling a long springing cuif that 
was temptingly near. “ Come, never mind — 
am I not telling you it was only Maurice I ” 


CHAPTER III. 


REACTION AND RECOVERY. 

And now, behold ! a wonderful thing. 

Before the next twenty-four hours had 
elapsed our four young disciples of de riguenr 
had not only recovered entirely from the blast- 
ing effects of the dead failure,” but had come 
to jest upon the subject. 

At first, as we know, one and all had alike 
smarted. Tom had gone about muttering to 
himself, Ida had poured forth to whomsoever 
would listen. The younger pair had thirstily 
picked up information, and sympathised with 
the utmost intelligence and apprehensiveness. 

The case in all its bearings was perfectly 
understood by Jenny and Louie. Tom’s and 
Ida’s wrongs were their wrongs. The blight 
which had fallen on Duckhill under its new ad- 
ministration affected their loyal young hearts 
through the hearts of their elders, and if it had 


33 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


not been for Maurice Stafford the unfortunate 
quartet would have mourned together in unison 
for a very much longer time than they did. 

But Maurice seemed to see nothing to moan 
at. Instead of preserving a sombre silence on 
the subject, and treating it as though it were 
too appalling for common breath, Maurice 
opened conversation at the very first general 
meeting of the family, by a reference to Gen- 
eral Thistleblow’s disgust and Colonel Jessop’s 
irascibility, which set everybody laughing. 

“ Do them both all the good in the world,” 
said Maurice, helping himself freely from the 
sideboard. “ Save them a lot of physic. It’s 
awfully bad for old people to have everything 
go easy. They get ill directly, you know. 
Nothing like a good stir up. You did both the 
old gentlemen a turn for which they ought to 
be grateful, Tom.” 

As he calls me Tom, I suppose I may call 
him Maurice,” commented Tom, to himself.) 
He took note of such things. 

“ All the same, I wish it had been anyone 
else who had done them the turn,” observed he, 
aloud. And as for their being grateful, if you 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


33 


had seen the faces they made when I tried to 
apologise ” 

Did you apologise ? Ob, I shouldn’t have 
apologised. What on earth had you to apolo- 
gise for ? What had you done ? ” 

Brought you all down to a dull, out-of-the- 
way part of the country in the dead of winter,” 
said Tom, ruefully, “ and then boxed you up 
in the house.” 

And pulled the strings of the shower-bath 
overhead ? No, no ; my good fellow, you are not 
omnipotent Jove yet. You did not box us up — 
and as for bringing us down here, we need not 
have come if we had not wished. For my part, 
I don’t owe you a grudge,” and the conversation 
had terminated as the reader may imagine. 

Before two days had passed the defunct 
shooting party had come to be shorn of half its 
terrors in the retrospect ; no one shunned the 
subject in public, or recurred to it bitterly in 
private. Lady Sophia’s expression had been 
smartly mimicked by Jenny, and General This- 
tleblow’s Bless my soul, this is unendurable ! ” 
caught to the life by the same impertinent 
sprite. 


3 


84 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


Nobody now minded tlie weather. It 
snowed, and it blew ; it half thawed, and then 
froze again ; every hope of out-door exercise or 
amusement had to be abandoned, and not an 
unhappy face was to be seen within the walls 
of Duckbill Manor. 

This, to be sure, may have been partly due 
to a reflection which was made aloud many 
times a day. 

‘‘ Just think what it would have been to have 
had all of them still here ! ” was forever being 
exclaimed by one and another, and the specula- 
tion lent a new zest to whatever was going on 
at the moment. 

“ Just thinh what it would have been,” cried 
Jenny to Louie. “ Just think ! (Bang, bang, 
went battledore and shuttlecock as she spoke !) 

We couldn’t have ]3layed here, you know. 
Ida wouldn’t have let us, for the noise. And 
we should never have been allowed into the 
drawing-room, even though we couldn’t get 
down to the vicarage for lessons. We should 
have had to sit all by ourselves up in the hor- 
rid old schoolroom.” 

“ But why did Ida say Ave were to sit up 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


35 


there and not to come into the drawing-room, 
and now she lets us into the drawing-room. ? 
And why ” 

Why, of course, why,” retorted her sis 
ter, superiorly. (“ Eighty-four, eighty-fr\m ; do 
keep out of that corner, there — I told you, 
that corner always stops us,” in parenthesis.) 

Ida told me all about it,” continued Ida’s in- 
jerpreter, the game being resumed. It is not 
proper for her to be sitting alone with a young 
man when Tom is in the steward’s room. Tom 
had to be with Mr. Trusty for nearly two 
hours to-day. That was why Ida fetched us.” 

“ Where is Ida now ? ” 

Writing up in the boudoii*. She won’t 
stay down-stairs, because she says it does not 
do for her to be about all day while Maurice 
is here. (Oh, do take care ! There ! It’s 
down again !) ” as the shuttlecock madly 
dashed against the wall and rebounded on to 
the floor. The room was hardly large enough. 

“ I say, Jenny,” the other player paused be- 
fore taking up position again. ‘‘ I say,” began 
little Louie, a wise smile illuminating her small 
countenance as she held ready her battledore. 


36 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


and looked first at it and then at her sister. 
“ Wouldn’t — wouldn’t Maurice do for Ida, 
don’t you think ? ” 

Jenny simpered. 

“ Of course I have thought of that before, 
you very silly girl,” she observed, loftily. “ I 
haven’t said anything to Ida, because it 
wouldn’t be proper ; but of course I have 
thought of it, and so I daresay has Tom.” 

“ He is so awfully nice.” 

Isn’t he ? " 

^^And he is just the right age; and he is 
fair, and she always says she likes fair men ; 
and he has no moustache, and she hates a 
moustache ; and he’s tall ; and he shoots ; and 
he has such a toide laugh ; and I know he 
sings though he won’t sing down-stairs, and — 
and ” 

“ Of course I can see all that,” Jenny was 
disdainfully acquiescent. ‘‘ Do you think I 
haven’t seen all that — and a great deal more 
too? But I did not suppose you would notice 
anything, as you are only a little girl.” 

“ I am not a little girl. I am quite able to 
notice. Jenny, did you liear him say he would 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


37 


like to be snowed up here, and stay on, and 
on ? ” 

“ That might mean anything. He is so 
good-natured.” 

Don’t you think he cares about Ida, then ? ” 
disappointment in every accent. 

How am I to know whether he cares or 
not ? ” rejoined the oracle. ‘‘ How can I tell ? 
I can only tell what I see. Now I think we 
have talked about it long enough,” primly. 

Tom would not like us to talk about it any 
more. Only I think I may tell you, Louie — 
and it is very good of me to tell you — that I 
believe — I — believe — ” impressively, “ that this 
is why Tom and Ida have asked down all the 
people next week. Because, you see, if Ida 
can’t be alone in the drawing-room next week, 
and we have got to be at our lessons ” 

The door of the room opened. 

Seventy -four — seventy -five,” chirruped out 
two monotonous, sing-song, all-engrossed young 
voices, and Ida thought what a good game the 
children were having, and what a comfort it 
was that they could so well amuse themselves. 

To her, in the plenitude of her twenty sum- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


mers, Jenny and Louie were still “the chil- 
dren ” — children, moreover, entirely occupied 
by their lessons and their play, unless directly 
admitted to social intercourse with their eldei’s. 

She and Tom might instruct and inform ; 
but as for her young sisters ever instructing 
or informing themselves on matters outside 
their special range, such an idea never really 
presented itself to the mind of “ Miss Barnet.” 

But Ida was herself conscious of a strange 
new radiance illuminating all the common 
habits of her daily life. Our young lady was 
something of a martyr to habits. She liked 
to do a set thing at a set hour, and she would 
give as a reason for being occupied in any par- 
ticular manner at a particular time, that she 
“ always ” did as she was doing then. Thei'e- 
fore it can be easily imagined that so trifling 
a circumstance as there being a guest of her 
brother’s staying in the house, made no sort of 
difference to Ida. She disposed of her days 
precisely as she w^ould have disposed of them 
otherwise: the household affairs did not suf- 
fer, her correspondence was not neglected, her 
dogs were duly fed and combed. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Outwardly no alteration was visible, or audi- 
ble. Ida had always had a light step ; that it 
tripped hither and thither more lightly than 
ever was imperceptible, even to herself. Or- 
dering dinner had ever been with her a sort of 
sacred duty ; on a sudden it kindled into a 
pleasure. 

In writing, her pen was permitted to expand 
on themes which she would formerly have sup- 
posed to be totally void of interest to her cor- 
respondent. Emphatically underlined words 
had a knack of getting into her letters on this 
wise — 

“We have got rid of all those dreadful 
people, and we are so looking forward to your 
coming. The weather has been very bad, but 
the barometer is rising beautifully. We do 
hope we are going to have skating.” 

As for her pets, her Humpty and her 
Dumpty, the two silky spaniels who had usu- 
ally only a limited amount of claim on her at- 
tention and charity, nothing now was too good 
for them. Humpty was allowed to lie on the 
low cushioned chair from which he was usu- 
ally ejected with ignominy; Humpty was en- 


40 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


couraged to exhibit old tricks and learn new 
ones. 

All this was, as we have said, the outcome 
of a new feeling within the happy girl’s heart. 
She had begun by merely regai*ding Maurice 
Stafford as the one good-natured and sweet- 
tempered member of the ill-fated shooting 
party. To him she had turned for consolation 
and support when black looks were the order 
of the day. His serenity — or his indifference, 
whichever it was — had been balm to her 
wounded spirit, and the very siglit of his full- 
moon countenance coming through a doorway 
had altered the atmosphere of a whole gloomy 
apartment. 

It was Ida herself who in the first blush of 
acquaintanceship had used the term full 
moon ” to Maurice’s round, open face. There 
was nothing particularly distinctive in Mr. 
Stafford’s features, and what little Louie had 
innocently termed his “ nice, wide laugh ” em- 
anated from a mouth which was certainly wide 
enough. There really was a resemblance be- 
tween the typical moon of children’s faijy-tales 
and the placid physiognomy of Tom’s friend. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


41 


But gradually allusions to this had been 
dropped in family asides. Maurice ceased to 
be ‘‘ Maurice ” on the lips of the elder sister. 
He was “ Mr. Stafford,” and Mr. Stafford was 
quoted and referred to with ever-increasing 
emphasis. Mr. Stafford was no longer “ harm- 
less ” and “ inoffensive ; the terms seemed to 
fall away from him of themselves. 

No one could say how or when the change 
was effected ; but certainly before many days 
were over, the guest who had been asked as a 
make-up, to fill a bachelor’s room which other- 
wise would have been vacant, and who had 
subsequently been wrought upon to remain be- 
hind the more important folks because he could 
put up with evils which had affrighted and af- 
fronted them, was now become the central figure 
of the canvas on which our young hosts were 
busy mapping out future triumphs intended to 
wipe out the remembrance of past failure. 

“ I say, Ida, aunt Bess will get on all right 
with Maurice, won’t she ? ” 

Very well indeed, Ida thought. 

“And uncle Jack? I suppose uncle Jack 
will do all right too ? ” 


42 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“They would not have much in common, 
you know, Tom.” 

“ N-no. No, I don’t suppose they would. 
But I could explain to Maurice. I could tell 
him that uncle Jack is really a very good soi t, 
only a little cantankei’ous. After all, he does no 
one any harm ; he goes about by himself ” 

“ Oh, of course. Oh, I never meant for a 
moment to stop his coming ; it was only when 
you wondered whether he would suit Mr. Staf- 
ford ; but Mr. Stafford need not have anything 
to do with him.” 

“ Then about Maud and Caroline, and uncle 
Theo. Uncle Theo will want* nothing but ice, 
and as long as we can give him good ice I 
don’t suppose he cares who we have with us — 
man, woman, or child. Maurice is sure to get 
on with him.” 

“And with Maud and Caroline too. They 
are very easy to get on with.” 

“ I am glad the boys can come. I always 
meant to have them foi* Christmas, but if they 
had not been sent home from school sooner w^e 
could not have got them now. That break-out 
of the measles was the very thing for us.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


43 


“ So it was.” 

I am awfully glad' to have them.” 

“ So am I. Boys like Harry and Charlie are 
always nice in a house. And if they are skat- 
ing all day they will want no other amuse- 
ment.” 

They will all like Maurice.” 

Ida was silent. 

say, they will all like Maurice,” repeated 
her brother, looking to her for the confirmation 
which habit had taught him to expect. 

“Yes; oh, yes, certainly.” A shade of half- 
heartedness in the reply, or what seemed sucli 
in his eyes, made Tom draw nearer. 

“ Why do you say it like that ? ” he demand- 
ed, suspiciously. 

“Like what?” 

“ Why did you say ^ certainly ? ’ ” 

“ Because I meant ‘ certainly.’ ” 

“ Did you mean it ? ” 

“ Of course I meant it.” 

“ I don’t like ‘ certainlys,’ ” quoth Tom, testily. 
“ I don’t understand them. If you don’t agree 
with me, I would much rather you said it out. 
How is a fellow to know what he is about if 


44 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


he is put off with a reply like that? If you 

have anything against Maurice ” 

‘‘I have nothing whatever against him.” 

“ There you go again ! ‘ Whatever ? ’ Who 

is to know what you are driving at with your 
‘ certainly s ’ and your ‘ wh ate vers ? ’ Why can’t 
you talk plainly ? ” 

“ But I am talking plainly.” 

“ Do you think these people will like Maurice 
Stafford, or will they not ? ” 

“ I think they are sure to like him.” 

Tom almost groaned. Sure ! That’s on a 
par with ‘ certainly.’ ‘ Sure,’ indeed ! What 
am I to suppose that means ? ” (Of all the 
tiresome people in the world the young master 
of Duckhill could, when the fit took him, be 
the tiresomest.) “ ‘ Sure ! ' ” he began again, 
but Ida burst into the merriest laugh imagina- 
ble, and he was so confounded by such frivol- 
ity that not another syllable could he ejaculate. 

“ She could hardly have said less if it had 
been that little beast of a Jessop,” he muttered, 
when he presently found himself alone. He 
was not conversant with girl nature. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE SNOW-PLOUGH. 

The following day a diversion was made. 
Snow had fallen on the previous evening and 
lay many inches deep upon the ground, but the 
sky overhead was clear, and the atmosphere 
brilliant. 

“We must get out to-day somehow,” said 
one and all with the joyous determination of 
youth and health. 

“ If we can get down to that stream in the 
woods we shall find woodcock there to a dead 
certainty,” said Tom, addressing his guest. “ It 
is a first-rate feeding-place for them, and ducks. 
I have never known it fail. There might be 
snipe too. After all this vile weather they will 
be glad to go anywhere : and their usual feed- 
ing-grounds will be in rather a bad way. 
We’ll be off directly after breakfast.” 


46 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


“ Oh — li — li ! ” It was from the two little 
girls that the involuntary groan here burst. 

“ Oh ? ” repeated Tom, looking round upon 
them in surprise. “ What do you mean by 
‘ Oh ? ’ I was not thinking of you, of course.” 

“ Directly after breakfast ! ” reproachfully 
murmured Jenny, looking first at her brother 
and then at Maurice. 

“ What on earth does she mean, Ida ? ” Ida 
was often expected to interpret on this wise. 

“ Something was said about a snow-plough, 
I believe,” replied she. Was not that it, 
Jenny ? The children will have to go to the 
vicarage, if they can possibly get there, you 
know, Tom ; and I believe — I fancy — Mr. 
Stafford said ” 

He said he would make us a snow-plough, 
and take us down on it himself. And Taffy 
was to draw it. And he had often done it. 
And he would make the plough himself. 
And it will be such fun. And, oh, Tom, dov^t 
say you won’t.” The above burst forth in a 
duet of impetuous demand. 

“ A snow-plough, eh ? ” said Tom, good-hu- 
mouredly. Oh, yes, you can have that. Jen- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


47 


kins can make you one easy enongli. It is 
rather a good idea. We’ll have a seat on the 
top, and one of the gardener’s boys can trot 
you down — the only thing is, when ought you 
to be there ? I don’t know if we could get the 
plough rigged out soon enough. At what 
o’clock do your lessons begin ? ” 

‘‘ At ten ; but ” 

Ten ? We can’t get you down by ten.” 

“ Oh, no,” in chorus. “ Oh, no ; they would 
never expect us for lessons to-day ; but if we 
could go and just see them, and tell them we 
were coming to-morrow,” insinuated Jenny, who 
had obviously thought out the matter. ‘‘ If 
Mr. Stafford's’ turning anxiously to him, “ if he 

would take us down, and he said he would ” 

^^All right, I will,” said Stafford, prompt- 
ly. We’ll square it, somehow. When do you 
want to go ? Morning or afternoon ? ” 

“It’s no use putting off shooting till the 
afternoon,” interposed Tom. 

“ Look here ; shall we shoot now, and snow- 
ride after luncheon? ” suggested Maurice. And 
thus it was arranged. 

Bob, the under-gardener, undertook the mak- 


I 


48 THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 

ing of the plough. It would be rough, but 
strong, and warranted to carry three people 
along the smooth winding of the avenue, which 
extended almost to the vicarage gate. Taffy 
would make no objections to drawing it; Bob 
would answer for Taffy. He would bring it 
round after luncheon, between two and three 
o’clock. 

“ I really see no need why ^-ou should be 
pressed into the service though,” Tom turned 
to his friend, the matter being concluded. “ If 
Bob makes the cart — or whatever we are to call 
it — he will probably be able to drive it better 
than either of us could ; and he is a very de- 
cent fellow, quite fit to look after my sisters. I 
have known him from a boy. Had we not bet- 
ter take something to eat in our bags, and make 
a day of it in the woods ? ” 

Just as you please.” Stafford turned in- 
differently away. Arrange it anyhow, and I 
shall be satisfied.” 

‘‘ But you said you would take us.” Jenny 
was too proud to speak, but little Louie’s feel- 
ings were not so sensitive. You did say you 
would,” whispered she, persuasively. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


49 


I suppose to-morrow wouldn’t do as well, 
ell ? ” suggested Maurice. He was a sports- 
man, and lie rarely liad such a chance of sport 
as was now offered him. 

“ Oh, to-morrow — or any day : come away, 
Louie. It doesn’t matter when w'e go ; and it 
doesn’t matter who takes us.” Jenny seized 
her sister’s hand. “ I don’t think much of 
promises,” continued she, crossing the room 
with a lofty step. I never believe in them, 
especially when they are made by men^'^ van- 
ishing with this Parthian shot. 

I say, do you really want me very much ? ” 
called Maurice aftei* the retreating figures. 

There was a sound of a halt, and a scuffle in 
the outer chamber. 

I say — stop a minute,” continued the pur- 
suer, advancing. 

But stop ! Not they ; with Louie already 
in tears, and Jenny on the verge ! How should 
they ever have looked each other in the face 
again had they now been caught, and seen ? 
Obviously there had been a moment of uncer- 
tainty and indecision, a wild hope in the breast 

of the younger to be crushed by instant scorn 

’4 


50 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


on the part of the elder ; and the outcome was 
a scamper, effectual if undignified, which left 
tlie room deserted, and the delinquent non- 
plussed. 

“ I say — I’m very sorry,” said he, slowly com- 
ing back. 

“ Pooh ! ” said Tom. I ’pon my word, 

Ida, I don’t think the children ought to behave 
like that. Eh ? You must talk to them. We 
can’t have them showing temper, eh ? And 
really they are old enough to understand ” 

“ I never dreamed of its being a shooting 
day,” interposed Maurice. 

“ Pray don’t think any more about it.” There 
was a heightened colour on Ida’s cheek as she 
turned towards him, both it and her tone might 
have meant anything. ‘^They are only chil- 
dren, you know ; and it was rather — rather a 
disappointment. I told them before they came 
down-stairs not to reckon upon it; but they 

seemed to think that Mr. Stafford ” 

Yes ; I did say I would take them. I say, 
Tom, perhaps I ought, you know.” 

Tom, however, had no compunctions himself, 
and no intention of giving in to those of an- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


51 


other. He was annoyed and discomposed at 
the bare idea of such a thing as relinquishing 
the excellent sport which at length it was in 
liis power to offer, simply because Jenny and 
Louie had presumed on the good-nature of their 
guest. Maurice himself was obviously only 
wavering under pressure. 

“ It is perfectly ridiculous,” fumed Tom. 

Ida, can’t you tell him how ridiculous it 
is?” 

But Ida had moved towards the door. 

Women never have any sympathy with 
sport,” said Tom. And in less than half an 
hour the two set forth. 

“ There they go ! ” wailed little Louie from 
an upper window. “ I knew they’d go. Nasty 
old snow-plough ! I don’t care a bit about it 
now. It was Maurice’s making it, and us help- 
ing him, and he driving, and we sitting up on 
the seat beside him, and all, that made the fun ! 
To go with Bob ! ” 

“ I’m not going with Bob,” said Jenny, suc- 
cinctly. 

There was a pause. Obviously the remark 
had fallen hat. 


62 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


‘‘ I say, Jenny ? ” a new suggestion in the 
speaker’s tone. 

Well ? ” extreme dryness in the retort. 

“ What if he comes back ? ” 

“ Come back ? How can he come back ? ” 

“ He may come back, you know. We wei*e 
not to start till between two and three o’clock, 
and ” 

“ And they have taken their luncheon with 
them, that they may stay out for the day ! It 
looks as if Maurice were coming back, doesn’t 
it ? ” with deep disdain. “ I don’t care,” pro- 
ceeded the indignant Jenny, with true femi- 
nine lack of logic. “He needn’t suppose I 
care. If he doesn’t like to come — if he doesn’t 
come of his own accord — I am sure we don’t 
want him. But I wouldn’t go and say I’d do 
a thing, and then not do it just because — be- 
cause — ” with choking voice, “ something bet- 
ter turned up. I didn’t think Maurice had 
been that kind of a man.” 

“ But we couldn’t expect him not to like to 
go shooting with Tom ? ” 

“We never did expect him;” Jenny turned 
fiercely round. “ He might have gone with 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


53 


Tom easily — easily. He might have gone all 
this long morning, and come in to luncheon; 
and — and the plough wasn’t to be ready till 
two or three o’clock.” 

“Well, I say he’ll come.” 

“ He won’t come.” 

“ He will come. I say he’ll come.” 

“ You say ? What has your saying to do 
with it ? ” warming towards a quarrel. “ Do 

you suppose anything you say ” The door 

opened, and the elder sister entered. Each 
little girl turned away her head. “ She is 
come to scold us,” they thought. 

But Ida was not come to scold. Ida had 
been still more deeply wounded than either 
Jenny or Louie. There had been a little scene 
on the previous evening, of which no one knew 
but herself and Maurice. 

Maurice, running up the broad staircase in 
the moonlight, had perceived a slight figure, 
whose outlines he had learned to know, gazing 
from a windowed recess upon the silvered 
landscape without. He had paused, and drawn 
near. Ida had bidden him note “ the flying 
cloud, the frosty light ; ” had pointed out this 


54 


THFJ ONE GOOD GUEST. 


and that indication of a change in the mood of 
the elements, and had predicted just the clear, 
radiant day which followed. 

Then he had suggested a flight over the 
smooth snow, and had asked if she would 
share it ? He would construct a rude car, in 
which the two could sit, and which any of 
the sturdy little ponies in the stable could 
draw, and they would have a snow- ride to- 
gether. 

Ida had laughed and promised. She had 
looked surprisingly bright and lovely at the 
moment, and he had experienced a strange 
sensation while he regarded her. Subse- 
quently the construction of the snow-plough 
had been mooted in the general circle, and the 
promise had been made which had haunted the 
little girls’ pillows all through their sleeping 
hours. Their trip had been openly and joy- 
ously discussed ; but that other, that pi*eceding 
one, its forerunner and antecedent — about it 
Stafford had been dumb. Was innocent Ida 
to blame if such silence was inexpressibly dear 
to her heart ? 

She had stepped down-stairs in the morning 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


55 


sunshine with ail its rays reflected on her 
countenance. This was her day — the day she 
had predicted — the day for which she had 
somehow bargained. It would be the last of 
freedom, and of that delightful, easy sociabil- 
ity into which the little party had drifted, and 
which she would gladly have had go on — and 
on. 

True, she had herself drawn up the list of 
the future occupants of the guest chambers ; 
and it never for a moment occurred to her to 
hope that anything might happen to interfere 
with the carrying out of the new programme ; 
but she sighed as she said to herself, “ Our last 
day ! ” and it needed all the enchanting pros- 
pect which that day held out to chase away 
pensive regrets. Now, for the first time, she 
began to wonder if it could have been on her 
account that Maurice Stafford had remained at 
Duckhill behind the rest. The idea was pre- 
sumptuous ; but presumptuous reckonings have 
proved to be occasionally true ones. 

Maurice had given no reason for staying, 
and she knew he had been invited elsewhere. 
As for being bored, idle, or at a loss — he was 


56 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


the busiest person in the place in his own way. 
He sawed and cut up wood in the yard ; he 
carried it in, assisted by Jenny and Louie ; all 
three looking so glowing and rosy that Ida 
could have joined them with pleasure, but for 
the weight of her young-ladyhood. He put 
the old gun-room in order, cleaned every gun 
in the place, melted bullets by a fire of his 
own construction, whistled, and polished, and 
rubbed and scrubbed, and needed nobody to 
tidy up after him. 

The only difficulty had been in keeping 
Jenny and Louie away from such a fascinat- 
ing playmate. They also hankered after the 
emery cloth, and the sand-paper ; they had be- 
sought Ida to let them take down their skates 
to be cleaned, and made ready for the frost. 
Ida had demurred ; but on the occasion of the 
request it chanced that Tom was also busy in 
the gun-room, and since Tom was there, all was 
right. She had even gone in herself, just to 
take her own skates, and ask if anyone would 
kindly — and Maurice had got hold of them be- 
fore she could finish the sentence. He had 
furthermore pressed her to stay and see them 


THE^ONE GOOD GUEST. 


57 


done — but this had been too much. Tom’s eye 
had said, I doubt if Lady De Rigueur would 
approve,” and Ida had meekly withdrawn be- 
neath the glance, feeling somewhat doubtful 
also whether she should not have carried off 
the busy little sisters with her. But this she 
could not find it in her heart to do. 

Aware of the precarious nature of their 
stay, Jenny and Louie, with supernaturally 
composed countenances, were affecting com- 
plete ignorance of anyone’s entrance or pres- 
ence,. so absorbed were they in their work. 
Jenny, on a rough bench close to the window, 
was to all appearance far too deeply concerned 
in making the most of the waning light of a 
winter afternoon to have a moment to spare 
for conversation or relaxation ; Louie was bent 
double over an all-engrossing iron, which ap- 
peared to need not only all her eyes and fin- 
gers, but both her ears into the bargain. 

“ I may as well let them alone,” concluded 
Ida. To do her justice, she only inflicted dep- 
rivations and restrictions at the fancied bid- 
ding of duty, or of Lady De Rigueur. Lady 
De Rigueur would, she considered, be satisfied 


58 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


with her own retirement from the scene in the 
present instance, and accordingly she had with- 
drawn after leaving her skates in the posses- 
sion of Mr. Stafford. How was she to sup- 
pose that Mr. Stafford w^ould bring them back 
to her himself, when finished ? 

She was in the drawing-room, of course. 
The drawing-room looked a trifle dull, in spite 
of a blazing fire whose fitful lights danced over 
the old-fashioned furniture, and she was in- 
clined to pity her poor little lonely self for be- 
ing obliged to sit there in state, instead of 
making one of the merry group she had left, 
hammering and tinkering to the sound of their 
own voices, when the door opened and Maurice 
came in, stood still, and looked around. It 
was obvious that at first he did not see that 
the chamber had an occupant. Ida was sunk 
in a low chair by the fire, and its broad pillows 
rose on every side. Only the brown coronet 
of hair which surmounted her shapely head 
was visible, and Maurice missed it. He had 
turned to depart, when she sprang uj). She 
could not let him go, knowing tliat he had 
come to see her ; it was only kind, courteous. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


59 


polite to show herself more fully. Even now 
he did not perceive the movement, having his 
back turned. 

‘‘ Oh — ah — Mr. Stafford ? ” A shy voice 
faintly quavered through the long room — but 
it was enough. Ketracing his steps with de- 
light, Maurice found his 3’outhful hostess pret- 
tier, sweeter, softer, than he had ever before 
beheld her. 

Nor was there a single complaint made in 
the distant gun-room, although the deserter re- 
turned thither no more that day. A tacit un- 
derstanding on the subject prevailed. 

This little act of the piece before us took 
place, be it remembered, in the afternoon pre- 
vious to the construction of the snow-plough, 
so that it will readily be understood how the 
defection of their idol caused something more 
than the bitterness of disappointment in tlie 
breasts of two of his worshippers. They had 
been despised, and although they could not 
have put such a feeling into words, something 
within each swelling bosom whispered that if 
Ida, their beautiful and cherished Ida, had 
been sufficiently appreciated — as till now they 


00 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


had in their secret souls believed — they would 
not have been thrown over as they had been. 

All the same, the scene which had taken 
place in the dining-room had been terribly 
against rules, and now here was Ida come to 
tell them so. Both hung their heads. But 
when it appeared that Ida was come to do 
nothing of the kind, that no syllable of rebuke 
or admonition fell from her lips, nay, that her 
manner was peculiarly gentle, almost tender, 
little Louie nestled tearfully to her side, and 
Jenny could scarce find voice for a reply. For 
Ida had come to propose a plan. 

The sisters had a low dog-cart, which all 
three drove by turns — Ida was very just about 
these turns, and resolute that strict fairness re- 
garding them should be maintained — and she 
now suggested that the wheels should be taken 
off this equipage and runners substituted, so 
that, with a set of pretty bells attached to the 
harness, they could fly jingling about all over 
the country. 

The snow-plough, she said, was all very well 
for the avenue, or for some of the woodland 
paths, but it was hardly the proper sort of 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


61 


vehicle to be seen in outside their own grounds, 
and cei'tainly not in the little town four miles 
off. She would have a proper sleigh, and they 
could all go in it. They could go in it to 
church on Sundays. It would be such fun. It 
would be the only sleigh in the neighbourhood. 

Before the speaker had finished, her auditors 
were all eagerness, all excitement. How soon 
could the wheels be taken off ? How soon could 
the bells be sent for ? She had to sit down to 
her desk to pen a couple of notes straight away. 

And after all, it was really very nice going 
off in the snow-plough with Bob. At three 
o’clock, for he could not be ready sooner. Bob 
came round ; and so proud was he of his handi- 
craft, and so tempting did the funny little 
vehicle appear, that not a word was said about 
Jenny’s not going, but the two little girls, 
screaming with delight, took their places on 
the narrow seat, and, waving their hands back 
to the watcher on the door-step, were driven 
off without let or hindrance over the smooth 
surface of the snow. 

Go very nicely, don’t they ? ” said a voice 
behind Ida. 


62 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


How she started ! 

“ I am afraid I startled you,’’ proceeded the 
speaker. “ Tom and I have had a great morn- 
ing’s sport ; we found both woodcock and wild 
duck, and made havoc among them. You will 
say so when you see the bag. But we have 
been walking about pretty nearly up to our 
waists in snow in the dells — it is lying deep 
down there — so I thought I would knock off 
for to-day, and claim the fulfilment of yester- 
day’s promise.” 

“They are gone. You are too late.” 

“Too late for them — but, pardon me, not too 
late for you.” 

“ It was not very kind,” said Ida, with a 
choking voice, “ to disaj)point my poor little 
sisters, when you saw how much it was to 
them.” 

“ I know. That was what I thought.” 

“ But you did not stay.” 

“No, I didn’t stay. I felt a perfect brute, 
but I couldn’t give up the shooting.” 

“ Oh, of course. Never mind.” 

“All the morning I have thought of the 
poor little things — and you.” 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


63 


It was no matter for me — not in tlie slight- 
est. I hope you did not think of me for a mo- 
ment.” 

“ I did not,” said Maurice, drily ; not ‘ for 
a moment.’ ” Then, afraid lest she should 
miss the mark, being simple, “ but I believe I 
thought of you from hour to hour. Miss Bar- 
net, will you forgive me ? ” he added, after a 
moment ; “ you are a sportsman’s daughter and 
sister, can you at all understand the joys of 
sport ? Of course, I don’t mean to say I was 
not a selfish brute, but somehow — well, the 
truth had better out — I believe if I had the 
option again, I should do the same as I did. 
There ! — that’s a clean breast of it, anyway. 
And now that you know,” with his bold, bright 
eye fixed full upon her, “ now that you know, 
^vhat have I to expect at your hands ? Mercy ? 
_Or ?” 

* -sf- -X- * 

The little girls were greatly astonished to 
find a different escort awaiting them, on their 
exit from the vicarage, from that which had 
brought them thither. 

“ You see, here I am,” announced the un- 


64 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


abashed culprit of the morning. “ I said I 
should drive you, so I am here to do it. You 
got the start of jne in setting off ” 

“ Why, we were later than we said ; ever so 
much later.” 

You were earlier than I could get up, any- 
way. And I had to change, and to sit by the 
fire a little bit, and hear what your sister had 
to say — but I pelted down when 1 did set off, 
I can tell you ; and here I am. Up you get ; 
that’s right. We’ll scud over the snow like 
lightning. Now then, TafEy, look alive. I am 
going to give your sister a turn when we get 
back.” 

Why, it will be nearly dark when we get 
back ! ” exclaimed little Louie, holding on with 
both hands. 

But Jenny gave her a pinch, behind Mau- 
rice’s back. 

“What did it matter about the dark, you 
very silly girl ? ” said she severely, afterwards, 
the two being established on the watch, and 
the sleigh having gone forth again. “ People 
like with burning emphasis, “ don’t mind 

the dark. They like the dark. It is only not 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


65 


dark enouglij” as in ’the dim twilight the little 
car was seen approaching, and clear, ringing 
voices heralded the return of the deeply inter- 
esting pair. 

“ It’s all right,” added the little girl to her- 
self, with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction and 
relief. All — all right. She wouldn’t have 
gone out with him if it hadn’t been ; and she 
wouldn’t be talking like that, and laughing 
like that — oh, and I do believe they’re otf 
again ! Yes, they are — they are ! ” in ecstasy. 
“ Look, Louie, look ! They’re off again, and 
it’s quite light outside — quite light enough ; 
look how they fly along ! Quick ! ” for Louie 
had scrambled down from the wdndow-sil], 
tliinking no more was to be seen. Quick ! 
before they’re out of sight. There, can’t you 
see? That dark thing just before the trees; 
that’s them. Now they’re in the trees. How 
far will they go, I wonder ? We’ll wait here ; 
this is the place to see. But, Louie, we’ll tell 
nobody — not even Tom. Remember that, 
Louie. Oh, how glad — glad — glad — I am. 
It’s all right — and I said it would be ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 


GENEEAL TIlISTLEBLOW’s DISCOVERY. 

“ Well, well, well ! Ha ! lia ! ha ! That is 
the best thing I have heard for a long time ! 
’Poll my word, that is amusing ! Caught in his 
own toils, eh ? Caught just where the shoe 
will pinch like red-hot pincers ! Poor young 
fellow,” cried a mocking voice full of delighted 
malevolence, as two elderly gentlemen stood in 
the window of a St. James’s club. “Poor boy ! 
Bless my soul ! I never was more taken aback 
in my life. I thought if there was one being 
on earth unlikely to be tripped up in that way, 
it was my most respectable young ward, Tom 
Barnet. That he should be harbouring the 
biggest scamp in England ! It’s — bless my 
soul ! — it’s the best joke out ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“ I thought it devilish queer at the time 
that he could tell us nothing about this Staf- 
ford,” chuckled General Thistleblow’s com- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


67 


panion, who was none other than the Colonel 
Jessop already introduced to our readers. 
“ Clarke and 1 said so to each other. No one 
knew where Stafford hailed from. He was 
not an old schoolfellow ; he was not a Cam- 
bridge man; and he was no relation. I said 
to Clarke, ‘ What on earth is his claim on 
Duckhill ? ’ There isn’t shooting here for 
every waif and stray whom Tom Barnet 
chances to pick up ; and if it turned out that 
Stafford was a crack-shot — as I suppose it 
would have done — all the more reason for not 
asking him. Let him go where there is better 
sport, or more of it. Duckhill is only so-so.” 

Hum ! So-so ? I don’t know about that. 
I expect if we could have got at it, we should 
have been very fairly satisfied. I have shot 
the Duckhill woods for many a year past, and 
the bags never disgraced us. For my part I 
had no objection to Tom’s asking whom he 
chose, and fully expected to find one or two 
young fellows of his own age ; but what I 
can’t get over is the joke of his having inno- 
cently invited down to that quiet old place one 
of the fastest men going. I think I see our 


68 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


demure young landlord’s face when he finds 
out what he has done.” 

“ You are sure he did it in ignorance ? ” 

“ Ignorance ? Bless my soul, Jessop, you 
don’t know the boy. He is simply eaten u]! 
with pomposity and — and priggishness. Mind 
you, I am not saying a word against the lad ” 
— with a twinge of compunction ; “ he has al- 
ways behaved civilly enough to me ; I have 
not a complaint to make ; on the whole I — yes, 
it is only fair to say I have a sneaking regard 
for Tom ; if he would but knock about the 
world for a year or two, and have the starch 
taken out of him, he might quite possibly turn 
into a very decent fellow. It is the con- 
founded solemnity with which he treats every 
trifling difficulty that occurs either in his own 
or his sisters’ paths that staggers me. He still 
thinks it his duty to come to me for advice 
every now and then, you know. ’Pon my soul, 
sometimes it’s all I can do to give it without 
bursting out laughing in his lugubrious face.” 

I expect you think he would have been 
none the worse for advice in the present in- 
stance, however ? ” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. G9 

That’s it. He comes to me to know about 
all sorts of things I haven’t the slightest in- 
terest in, and don’t care the scratch of a 
pen about, and when he has anything in hand 
that I could help him Avith he is as close as a 
house. Of course I ought to have been con- 
sulted about this confounded shooting party. 
I should have looked all round, and gone into 
the matter with the greatest care ; and we 
might have had a very nice little time of it, 
even if the w^eather did play old Harj*y with 
the shooting. I could have got — let me see ” 
— musing, then with a swift recollection that 
he certainly would not have got the auditor 
whom he was addressing, “ I could have got 
more than enough of the right sort, any- 
how. Instead of which poor Tom goes and 
makes a mull of it with Clarke and his wife, 
the Inderwicks, Wortlebury, those two Ver- 
nons, and Maurice Stafford,” each name in suc- 
cession pronounced with its due contempt. 

“My wife has been in bed ever since she 
came home, from the cold she caught on the 
journey back,” quoth Jessop. 

“No wonder. A cross-countiy journey in 


70 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


December is a deuced unpleasant performance. 
I thought I was in for something myself — but 
it passed off.” 

Anyhow it was better than staying on. To 
look out of one’s window day after day, and 
see nothing but drenching rain and clouds al- 
most sweeping the ground, is enough to give 
anyone the blues.” 

They are frost-bound at Duckbill now, 
which is worse.” 

don’t know about that. There will be 
some cocking in a good frost.” 

“ And that’s what someone else is thinking,” 
said General Thistleblow, significantly. 

“ Eh ? Oh, that fellow Stafford. Yes, con- 
found him, he has got the better of us in that 
respect. But he has had to pay for it. A 
week of Duckbill in driving sleet, with not a 
soul to talk to but four children, and nothing 
to do but play at ball with them with the bill- 
iard balls,” cried little Jessop with a malicious 
cackle. say even woodcock shooting would 
be dear at the price.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! You forget ; you and I are 
old fogies, Jessop. Stafford is a youngster 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


71 


liiinself. What’s his age ? We’ll say eight- 
an cl - twenty. Eight - and - twenty to thirty. 
When I was thirty I should have asked for no 
better luck than to be shut u]^ in a country 
house with a pretty girl like Ida Barnet ; and 
you may take my word for it, Maurice Staf- 
ford knows how to improve such an opportu- 
nity.” 

“ He didn’t seem that sort of man, either,” 
said Jessop, musingly. 

“No indeed, that’s the beauty of it. He 
didn’t seem in that or any other way to be the 
man we now find he is. Ha ! ha ! ha ! It 
makes me laugh whenever I think of it. At 
this very moment I daresay if we could look in 
at Duckhill we should see Tom and his sisters 
setting off for church ” — (it was Sunday morn- 
ing) — “ and the accommodating Stafford trot- 
ting alongside, prayer-book in hand — Ida’s 
prayer-book, you may believe, ” 

“ Oh, come, Thistleblow, draw it mild. They 
don’t get Maurice Stafford to church by all ac- 
counts. He would be mad with fright at the 
idea. Flirting with a pretty girl may be all 
very well, but not churcli-going ; no, by Jove ! ” 


72 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


shaking his head sagaciously, not church- 
going.” 

“ I shouldn’t mind wagering what you like 
that if anyone goes, Sta:ffiord goes. Bless my 
soul ! would he be such a fool as to affront 
the whole set of them — to say nothing of los- 
ing a nice walk, and all sorts of chances — 
just because he mayn’t happen to be up in the- 
ology ? He has been at some decent school, I 
suppose. He must remember what lie did at 
Eton, or at Winchester.” 

“ It would puzzle me to remember what we 
did at Eton.” 

‘Wou ? But you are an old j’eprobate ; Staf- 
ford is a young one. It can’t be such a very 
great effort of memory to look back a dozen 
years or so. Oh, to church he goes, you may 
believe; and poor honest Tom and- that mettle- 
some Ida to boot, are so taken with their new 
friend, and so edified by his piety ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! It’s too bad ; ’pon my word, 
it’s too bad.” 

“ What’s too bad ? ” 

“ Someone ought to tell them, Thistleblow.” 

“ Someone will tell them fast enough — when 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


73 


the time comes. The time for telling has not 
yet arrived. Wait a bit; I shall have a jubi- 
lant letter from my late v^ard accompanying a 
leash of woodcock and a couple of wild duck. 
He will tell me that he and Stafford shot them 
on such and such a day. He thinks he has got 
a great gun in Stafford, and that it will be a 
crow over me if he can show that Stafford got 
some shooting after all. Then I come down 
upon him. I say, ‘ My dear fellow, as your late 
guardian, and your father’s old friend, will you 
take a well-meant hint without being offended ? ’ 
Then I launch out and tell him all that you 
and I already know about this sly reynard who 
has got inside his quiet barnyard ; oh, I will 
make his eyes grow round, I promise yon. 
And I must own it will give me some pleasure 
to do so. In any discussions we have had 
hitherto, somehow or other it has al ways'" been 
Tom who has taken the high ground ; and what 
with his long face and his scruples of conscience 
I was often on the point of chucking up the 
guardianship in old days. I felt myself in such 
a confoundedly false position. It should have 
][)een I — not he — to raise scruples and talk 


74 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


about conscience. What had a boy in his 
teens to do with a conscience ? He ought in 
common civility to have left that sort of talk to 
older people.” 

“ His conscience will sing rather small now, 
Thistleblow.” 

“If it doesn’t,” Thistleblow laughed, “I 
know whose fault that will not be, eh, Jessop ? 
Oh, I have him now; I have him on two counts, 
as the lawyers say. First, I insinuate, ‘ What a 
thundering young fool you were to ask an ab- 
solute stranger to your house, where you had 
not even a resident chaperon for your pretty 
sisters ! ’ — and second, ‘ What the deuce did 
you mean by asking that stranger to stay on be- 
hind the rest of us, your own and your father’s 
old friends ? ’ That will be the gist of my letter, 
and it will be a stiff one for our young friend. 
He won’t be able to look quite so loftily at me 
after receiving that document, as he has been 
in the habit of doing of late.” 

An acquaintance here interposed, and the di- 
alogue terminated. 

It Avas a glorious winter afternoon in Picca- 
dilly. Not a trace of mist or fog marred the 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


75 


brilliancy of the atmosphere, and a fiery sun 
whose beams spread far and wide, sank with 
unabated sovereignty in a cloudless sky. 

All the world was out of doors, and all the 
world of fashion was engaged in making calls. 
Strutting along the familiar pavement with his 
chest well out, and his blue overcoat comforta- 
ble buttoned, our little Colonel experienced an 
internal glow of satisfaction of which he had 
not been conscious an hour before. 

He had gone to his club in rather a melan- 
choly frame of mind. His wife was ill, his 
house was dull, and he had not been asked any- 
where to dinner. Furthermore, he did not know 
exactly where to go for news, talk, and after- 
noon tea. Not that he took tea — he hated it — 
but he liked to drop in at good houses while 
that lively function was going on, liked to think 
he was obliged to put in an appearance ” at 
affairs to which others were going, or at all 
events that he owed a call ” in this or that 
smart neighbourhood. 

He did not as a fact know many houses which 
he could thus enter. Later on in the year 
there would be more ; but in December, before 


76 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


even Parliament had met, who could be ex- 
pected to have “ rounds ” to make ? 

Still, it was a nuisance to hang on at the club 
throughout a whole fine afternoon, and the 
prospect had made the hapless little Jessop, as 
we have said, melancholy. With Thistleblow’s 
news in his pocket, what better could he do than 
make for Lady Sophia Clarke as sharp as he 
could go, and he could not have desired a bet- 
ter house to call at than the Clarkes’ huge cor- 
ner mansion in Chesterfield Gardens. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A DRAWING-ROOM IN MAYFAIR. 

Colonel Jessop had not waited till now to 
pay his respects in so eligible a quarter as 
that to which we left him wending his way in 
the last chapter. 

The one redeeming feature of that disastrous 
shooting party which had resulted in his wife’s 
sore throat and his own lumbago, was the in- 
troduction efPected between them and the more 
august denizens of Mayfair. 

The Jessops had cringed to the Clarkes, and 
the Clarkes had permitted the cringe. They 
had not been genial ; they had not emitted 
more than the faintest flicker of civility, but 
they had “ hoped to meet,” and on that hope 
Jessop had already traded. 

He had looked in at five o’clock on the pre- 
vious Sunday, and had been endured. Some- 
thing had been said about calling on Mrs. Jes- 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


sop; and upon hearing that the hardships of 
the return journey, undertaken in such in- 
clement weather, had resulted in an actual ill- 
ness, Lady Sophia, who was nothing if not a 
doctor, had prescribed with vehemence and up- 
lifted finger. 

Jessop had caught at the opportunity. Ilis 
poor wife would be so grateful, so docile. 

Then the poor wife had been neitlier grateful 
nor docile, being a woman who could never see 
an inch beyond her own nose, and who in the 
present instance could not perceive that drink- 
ing dandelion tea and breathing sanitas out of 
a special inhaler, w^as little enough to do for 
the reward of Lady Sophia’s favour. Accord- 
ingly the intimacy had not ripened, and all her 
august ladyship’s medical interest and tardily 
aroused goodwill might have been allowed to 
die away without result, had Jessop not been 
afforded a chance of re-awakening the latter 
by the honne bouche he had picked up from his 
old friend Thistleblow. 

Somehow he had an instinct that Lady Sophia 
would i*ate at its true value General Thistle- 
blow’s discovery about Maurice Stafford. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


'9 


He had not heard Stafford’s name once men- 
tioned in Chesterfield Gai*dens, but he had an 
observant eye ; he was tolerably sure that the 
tongue which had erst been loudest in praise 
of Maurice would not have been all at once 
and altogether dumb about him thereafter, had 
there not been a sore spot somewhere. 

‘^She will not be sorry to hear we were all 
mistaken in him,” he shrewdly concluded, with 
a swift recollection of a little scene at Diickhill. 

He had been standing by when Mr. Staf- 
ford’s intention of remaining behind had been 
announced, and when in reply to Lady Sophia’s 
authoritative interrogations and exclamations 
the delinquent had answered by the briefest 
and most rudimentary of assertions ; and it had 
struck him that the proud, imperious, domi- 
neering Avoman he saAV before him, would never 
forgive such a moment. 

Lady Sophia was — ahem ! — a tartar. 

A charming, high-bred creature, no doubt, 
with every right to a spirit of her own, but not 
a person to lightly offend. He had caught his 
breath with amazement when Stafford thus of- 
fended. 


80 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Stafford, he had told himself, was an idiot 
to behave so. 

That a woman of Lady Sophia’s rank and 
status should condescend personally to look out 
his train, and intimate that he was to share her 
own and Sir Robert’s travelling compartment, 
was a thing to be proud of, not to be snubbed. 
The young fool was blind, stone blind, not to 
see what a feather he might have had in his 
cap. He had thrown away his luck, and it 
might prove that he had done still worse. 

What will she say now ? ” triumphantly 
chuckled the malicious little gossij^ as he hur- 
ried along. “ She set us all the example at 
Duckbill. My wife and Inder wick’s wife only 
followed suit. And Lady Sophia is one of 
your virtuous women, by Jove ! A devilish 
virtuous woman, I should say. I’d wager a 
good round sum she never speaks to Mr. Mau- 
rice Stafford again. Ho more looking out of 
trains, by Jove ! Ho more proffers of seats in 
carriages. Ha, ha, ha ! All Thistleblow cares 
about is to deal that soft young Barnet one in 
the eye — but what is young Barnet to me ? 
As long as he does not inveigle me down to 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


81 


that old rain tank of his a second time, he 
may drown whom he pleases in it, for aught I 
care.” 

Aloud. “ Lady Sophia at home ? ” finding 
himself on the doorstep of the house he w’as 
going to. 

Lady Sophia was at home ; and, truth to tell. 
Lady Sophia did not look overjoyed at the 
sight of her new visitor. She had given Colo- 
nel Jessop a finger and a smile the previous 
Sunday, and had warmed up towards the end 
of his stay so far as to send messages and pre- 
scriptions to his wife. But it was too soon for 
him to have called again ; she was not sure that 
it was not presuming ; for a full half minute 
she was inclined to consider that it was pre- 
suming, and in consequence to turn the cold 
should ei‘, and turn oif the still colder smile— 
but anon a thought occurred. 

The room was full, and a private conversa- 
tion possible; she would give Colonel Jessop 
the benefit of a private conversation. 

Bitter weather this must be in the north, 
must it not?” she began, easily. “We were 

lucky in making our escape from Yorkshire 
6 


82 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Avlien we did, Colonel Jessop ; I daresay Mr. 
Staifford has fled the scene also by this time.” 

I fancy not,” rejoined Jessop, delighted to 
have his tongue thus directed. ‘‘ I have just 
come from the club where General Thistleblow 
was talking about Stafford, and he said ” 

Other visitors demanded the attention of his 
hostess. 

(“Now, will she return to the subject or 
not?” pondered Jessop.) He had scarcely 
time to ask himself the question. 

“ And what did General Thistleblow say ? ” 
pursued Lady Sophia, who was at any rate 
mistress of her own drawing-room, and not to 
be thwarted by any interruption, or other ad- 
verse circumstance. “Was Mr. Stafford still 
at Duckhill ? ” 

“Very much at Duckhill, Lady Sophia. 
Being deluged, submerged, and probably by 
this time hung all over with icicles ! A ter- 
ri1:>le fate, is it not ? And that is not the worst 
either.” 

“ Indeed ? ” replied the lady, sharply. “ To 
be deluged, submerged, and hung over with 
icicles ought to satisfy anybody. It sounds 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


83 


like a modern render inof of the old sentence, 
‘ To be hanged, drawn, and quartered.’ ” 

Excellent ! Very good. He ! he ! he ! ” 
giggled Jessop. (‘‘It is a serious matter,” 
quoth he to himself, “ when a woman like 
Lady Sophia makes a jest.”J) “ Excellent, in- 
deed. But all the same, I assure your ladyship 
there are worse things even than hanging, 
drawing, and quai-tering. For instance,” with 
a sense of being keenly jocular, “ what do you 
say to being bored to death ? ” 

“ Bored to death ? Nonsense.” Despising 
the jester, it was not worth Lady Sophia’s 
while even to smile at so absurd an anti-climax. 
Had she not desired an auditor for something 
especial she had to say, the little colonel would 
have had no more of her attention. But as it 
was : “ If he were bored, why did he not come 
away with the rest of us ? ” demanded she. 
“ You don’t suppose. Colonel Jessop, that a 
man like Maurice Staiford stops a minute 
longer anywhere than suits his own book? ” 

“ A man like Maurice Stafford ? ” echoed 
Jessop, faintly. He perceived that the coup 
on which he had been relying for future 


84 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


favours, and a possible invitation to dinner — 
the Clarkes gave good dinners — was likely to 
fall flat. 

“ Yes, a man like Maurice Stafford,” repeated 
Lady Sophia, with unmistakable significance. 
“ Now that I know the man Maurice Stafford 
is — which I did 7iot., I confess, a fortnight ago. 
If you did. Colonel Jessop ? ” with threatening 
brow. 

“ Ton my word, I knew nothing about him, 
nothing whatever. Lady Sophia. I — I had not 
even heard the name,” panted the terrified Jes- 
sop. A deuced awkward woman to deal 
with,” muttered he to himself.) 

“None of us knew, I suppose,” resumed the 
lady, her frown relaxing ; “ and what annoys 
me most is to think he was clever enough to 
take us all in ” 

“ Seemed such a nice fellow — easy to please 
— quiet — gentlemanlike,” murmured Jessop. 

“ Oh, gentlemanlike, of course. The one 
thing he was — and is. No one could say the 
man was not a gentleman. But that Sir Robert 
and I, who have always been so extremely par- 
ticular, and who disapprove so strongly of the 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


85 


ways of fast young men, should have been let 
in by a party of children ” — (Poor Tom ! Poor 
Ida !) — “ and actually made to stay in the 
house, and — hobnob, for that is Sir Robert’s 
word for it — with a worthless, dissipated young 
man who had to leave the army for debt, and 
has been mixed up in all sorts of shocking trans- 
actions besides, it — it really — really I don’t 
know — I don’t really know how to speak of it.” 

How upon earth did she get hold of all 
this ? ” cogitated Jessop.) 

His strong card was trumped, but he would 
still endeavour to win a trick or two. Lady 
Sophia obviously knew all there was to know 
about the delinquent Stafford, but he could 
agree and abuse, condole and conjecture. 

“ It certainly was a mistake,” he said, wag- 
ging his head with profound gravity. 

“ A mistake, Colonel Jessop ? Well, if you 
choose to call it so. But I call it a piece of 
very great impertinence. We go down to an 
uncomfortable, out-of-the-way country house — 
we take a troublesome and expensive journey ” 
— (Lady Sophia was an economist) — “we put 
our plans very considerably out, in order to 


8G 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


do a kindness to tlie orphan children of an 
old friend ” — (“ In order to give Sir Robert 
a week’s good winter shooting,” ■ internally 
amended Jessop)— “ and we find domesticated 
at Duckhill,” proceeded the speaker, not re- 
garding truth as rigidly as she might have 
done, “ this very — very undesirable guest. 
Naturally we were off our guard. We found 
Mr. Stafford pleasant, and we — and I — for it 
was I more than Sir Robert, I allow, permitted 
him to make advances ” 

(“ Made advances towards him,” interpreted 
Jessop’s mental guide.) 

“ Which it will be extremely awkward now 
to repel,” concluded her ladyship, stating her 
own view of the case with engaging faith in 
his credulity. 

Jessop bowed. 

(“ Let her run on,” he thought, “ let her run 
on.”) 

“ I even invited him here ” — Lady Sophia had 
now got the bit well between her teeth — “ I 
told him Sir Robert and I would be very glad 
if he would call ; and, indeed, he nearly trav- 
elled back with us 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


87 


(“ UDconimonly nearly ! ”) 

“We liad proposed returning to town by 
tlie same train,” 

(“ Which you looked out.”) 

“ And I had a little dinner party ari*anged 
for this week to which I had meant to invite 
him.” 

(“ But to which you had not invited me. 
And I could have come without my wife, 
Avhom you know" to be ill in bed ! Ton my 
w^ord, you deserved to have the tables turned 
upon you, you nasty, tuft-hunting old vixen ! ” 
Jessop's temper, never sweet, was now^ giving 
w^ay. “ To go and pester wdth your invita- 
tions an unprincipled "young blackguard who 
wdll laugh at them in his sleeve, and pass over 
a man of position and means, and respectabil- 
ity to boot ! ”) 

He felt more angry wdth Maurice Stafford 
than he had done yet. 

Up to the present moment he had simply 
seen in General Thistleblow’s discovery a 
chance for bettering his acquaintanceship with 
the eligible Sir Kobert and Lady Sophia 
Clarke; and wdiile Thistleblow was revelling 


88 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


ill the opportunity afforded him for revenging 
the attitude preserved towards himself by his 
hitherto irreproachable ward, Jessop was men- 
tally turning over all he heard, and selecting 
for use such of it as might serve his own ends. 

But now that he perceived how much 
greater had been the impression made on his 
austere hostess than he had been aware of at 
the time, he experienced a new sensation. He 
also had a crow to pick with Mauidce Staf- 
ford. 

As a matter of fact, every individual mem- 
ber of the ill-fated shooting party at Duckhill 
Manor now felt that they had been done ” by 
Maurice. 

They had not liked one another. They had 
been about as badly assorted a set of people as 
could have been got together under one roof. 

In their simplicity and utter ignorance of 
the world, it had seemed to the ingenuous 
young hosts when devising their pi’ogramme, 
that certain people of a certain order, and with 
certain tastes, would naturally amalgamate. 
They had, as we know, bestowed an infinitude 
of pains upon the task of selection, and had 


THE. ONE GOOD GUEST. 


89 


fancied themselves highly in luck when ready 
acceptances had poured in, and not a single 
defaulter made a room vacant at the last. 

Subsequently they had supposed that it was 
only the rain which spoilt everything — but it 
was not only the rain. 

It was not only the outer atmosphere which 
was heavy. 

The plain facts of the case had been that 
scarcely a man or woman present had had a 
good word for another, with a solitary excep- 
tion — that exception being Maurice Stafford. 
Into the rivalries and jealousies of the rest 
Maurice had not entered. He had been the 
confidant of detraction, -of backbiting, of sly 
hints and innuendoes — and he had discreetly 
kept every word so uttered to himself. 

At the time this had won him golden opin- 
ions. A round, good-humoured face which 
could be trusted was not to be met with every 
day ; and as one disconsolate hour after an- 
other had been dragged idly through, the pos- 
sessor of this inestimable treasure had grown 
to be more and more in request. 

Everyone by turns had appropriated Mau- 


90 


THE ONE OOOB QUEST. 


rice. In tlie end they literally struggled for 
him. General Thistleblow, who but rarely 
proffered a civility, had, as we know, extended 
the hospitality of his club ; the taciturn and 
aggrieved Vernons, who had expected a smart- 
er gathering and a bigger place, had owned 
to a yacht when alone with Maurice, and 
had offered a berth therein for a Mediterra- 
nean tiip which was to be kej)t dark from 
Tom Barnet; and Lady Sophia Clarke, most 
remarkable of all ! had pounced upon an 
A.B.C. time-table, and insisted U23on it that 
Mr. Stafford’s train back to town was the 
same as her own and Sir Robert’s. 

It had been something of a shock to every- 
body to leave Maurice standing placidly on the 
doorstep when the carriages drove off from 
Duckhill. 

They had felt themselves severally aggrieved. 
Each one had meant to have him. None of 
them, at any rate, had dreamed of the Barnets 
having him. Tlie poor Barnets ! They did 
seem such an utterly insignificant little flock 
for the favourite to be wasted upon ! 

To be sure there was consolation in the 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


91 


thought taken from one ;point of view. Since 
Lady Sophia was not to have Maurice, it w^as 
something that neither Mrs. Jessop nor Mrs. In- 
derwick, neither Lord Wortlebury nor General 
Thistleblow had thwarted her in the matter ; 
and her ladyship’s feelings were, with proper 
variation, the feelings of the rest. They were 
disconcerted, but not vociferous. 

It was only now — now on hearing how one 
and all had been duped, tricked, taken in by a 
frank eye and pleasant voice — that the biases, 
cynical men and women who had allowed 
themselves to be thus over-reached, opened cry 
as with one accord, and gnashed their teeth 
with bitter chagrin and unavailing regrets. 

Little did the four poor innocents whose 
misbehaviour was now on every angry lip im- 
agine the thunderbolt that was in store for 
them I 


CHAPTER VII. 


“your UITCLE and I WOULD QUITE APPROVE.” 

Meantime wIlo more supremely resigned to 
fate than the young host of Duckhill, as he 
surveyed his freshly arrived batch of guests, 
and contrasted their joyous, anticipatory coun- 
tenances with the blank looks of dissatisfaction 
and despair which memory was for ever bring- 
ing before his eyes. 

A dozen nice easy people, with whom he and 
his sisters were at home, who made light of dis- 
agreeables, jested at disasters, and had become 
friends all round on the way down, were now 
installed in the spare rooms of the manor. 

“ Capital ! ” cried Tom to himself. “ Capi- 
tal ! ” 

His weather would no longer be abused, 
nor his billiard balls found out. He could an- 
nounce ten degrees of frost, and be afraid of 
nobody. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


93 


Now, Aunt Bess, no sitting over the fire, 
you know. Aunt Tibbie’s coming out, and so 
must you. We will find some way of keeping 
you warm; we’ll push you about in chairs. 
Eh ? What ? What do you say ? Oh, the ice 
is as safe as a house ; we have had the ponds 
swept from end to end, and every living soul 
ought to be out upon them this glorious morn- 
ing.” 

“ My dear boy, I am afraid ” 

He laughed. 

“ But it is so very cold.” 

“Can’t have skating without cold, ma’am. 
And what would Harry and Charlie say if we 
had got them down here and no skating ? ” 

“ Well, I’ll come. But, Tom,” cried his aunt, 
as with an elated nod and a “ Meet you at the 
ponds, then,” he was turning away, “but Tom, 
one thing. I j ust want to ask you this one thing. 
I had no opportunity last night. This young 
Mr. Stafford — he is a friend of yours — he seems 
very nice — and I find he has been at Duckhill 

nearly a fortnight ” 

“ He came with the shooting party, you 
know, Aunt Bess.” 


94 


THE ONE GOOD GJJ^EST^' 

* 

“I know. Yes, Ida told me;. but .tbe shoot- 
ing party all left at the end of the week ” 

“ Oh, before a week ; they* wouldn’t stay a 
week.” 

“And Mr. Stafford stayed oh. Was there 
any — ahem ! — reason for his staying ? ” 

“WYll, you see — the fact was — I don’t sup- 
pose one could call it much of a reason — but 
we sort of wanted him,” said Tom, with rather 
an embari*assed laugh. In his heart of hearts 
he knew that strict propriety had been evaded. 
“ We did have a time of it with those others. 
Aunt Bess ; I do assure you it was simply hor- 
rible. Of course it was a mistake our attempt- 
ing that sort of j^arty — at least I suppose it 
was — but they paid us out, anyhow. If we 
had only had someone to boss our side we 
might have managed ; but, as it was, they 
regularly bullied us in our own house. We 
seemed to need Maurice to stop on and comfort 
us. You have no idea what a comforting fel- 
low he is.” 

“ I can quite believe it. A very agreeable 
young man indeed. So good-humoured and 
well behaved.” 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


95 


“ He’s most mqfully well behaved — that’s 
just what he is.” 

“And your sisters like him? ” 

“Ask them. Just you ask them, and you’ll 
hear what they say. Ida was quite pleased to 
have him stay — for, of course, I consulted Ida 
— and Ave agreed that as he Avas here — and if I 
put it to him that it Avas because he ivas here 
Ave asked him on— there Avould be nothing odd 
in his staying. IJiope you don’t think there 
Avas anything odd, aunt Bess ? ” 

Had General ThistlebloAV been present he 
AA^ould have beheld in the speaker’s Avistful 
countenance food for unrestrained mirth. Tom’s 
aunt, hoAveA^er, saAV nothing to amuse. Like 
himself, she Avas simple and serious. 

“ I am sure you and dear Ida always act 
properly, Tom ; and your uncle and I often 
hold you up as patterns in that respect. I 
merely thought — oh, it Avas nothing your ask- 
ing Mr. Stafford, nothing at all — I merely Avon- 
dered — it seemed a little peculiar his caring to 
stay ” 

“You think he finds it stupid?” suggested 
her nephew, a little red in the face. “ I dare- 


96 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


say he does. But, at any rate, he has never said 
so to us. Those others did. You should have 
heard how they grumbled. That little beast 
of a Jessop,” drawing nearer, ice and skating 
forgotten, — “you know Colonel Jessop of the 
Engineers, don’t you ? Well, but you know 
who he is, then ? He and my poor father were 
brother officers, and I thought he would like 
to come and shoot here once again — he used to 
come in the old days — and we have good win- 
ter shooting if we have nothing else. He ac- 
cepted all right, and down he came, he and his 
wife, gladly enough ; but when it turned out that 
we couldn’t shoot because of the weather, he 
grew as sour as possible, and grumbled from 
morning till night. And what’s more, he went 
and — and found fault. Ida said he turned up his 
nose at our dinners. Well, we haven’t a swell 
cook, that’s a fact ; but I thought she did rather 
pai'ticularly well when those people were hei*e. 
Jessop said she had only one soup. Well, she 
did give it us once or twice over, but it was a 
ripping soup, and I was always glad to see it. 
That was it again last night, aunt Bess.” 

“ A very nice soup, indeed, Tom.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


97 


“ There, I knew you would say so. So does 
Maurice. He has had that soup ofE and on for 
a fortnight, and he never leaves a spoonful on 
his plate. He eats straight through the rest of 
the courses, too, for I have been watching him. 
Once there was a singed pudding — I don’t say 
he ate that, because we had it sent away; but he 
made believe not to smell anything, and talked 
to the dogs. I believe Jessop would have had 
out his pocket-handkerchief. Don’t you think, 
aunt Bess, that it is not — not exactly fair of 
people to treat you like that ? Even though Ida 
and I don’t have things quite right, we mean 

to ” the muscles of his honest mouth set 

fast to repress all indication of wounded feeling. 

His aunt, however, was not to be put off 
with details of Colonel Jessop, and other peo- 
ple in whom she had no interest. 

Pj’obably — for human nature is the same 
everywhere — it did not altogether displease her 
that the line people to whom her nephew and 
niece had given precedence when reopening the 
hospitable halls of their forefathers should 
have been out of sympathy with Duckbill un- 
der its new conditions. 

7 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


To be sure, it had been laboriously explained 
that pheasant shooting being the raison (Tetre 
of the party, sportsmen and their belongings 
only would claim to be included in it, and the 
present guests owned not a shot among them. 
Nevertheless, Mrs. Lytton could not help saying 
to herself that after all there was no need for 
the shooting paidy to have been the party, 
and that dear Tom and Ida had carried theii 
love of precedent a little too far in making it 
so. It was quite to be expected that two such 
young, inexperienced hosts should fall into a 
hundred little errors when thrown entirely on 
their own resources, without any older head to 
fall back upon. 

Had the shooting party been an unmixed 
success, it would, as Tom had divined, have 
been a triumph for the givers thereof ; but ]>er- 
haps it would not have warmed the blood of 
kinship in the hearts of their homelier relatives 
as did now the sense of participation in their 
wrongs. 

With such participation, however, all inter- 
est in the previous guests ended ; it was with 
Maurice Statford alone that Mrs. Lyttoii’s 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


99 


thoughts were now busy, and about him she 
had, as may have been guessed, jumped already 
to a very natural conclusion. Certainly she 
had been summoned to Duckbill to preside over 
dear Ida’s affairs. 

Here was a nice young man of suitable age 
and prepossessing exterior, apparently domesti- 
cated at her nephew’s country house, very little 
having been said as to when he had come, and 
nothing at all as to when he was going away. 

It was plain that he was very much at home : 
as much at home as a man could be. Sundiy 
little references had slipped out, allusions had 
been made, it had been let fall that Mr. Staf- 
ford had not only been brooming the ponds 
himself, but that he had kept others at the 
arduous occupation long after the general de- 
sire had been to slip away. Ida had laughed 
at the autocrat of the ice; Jenny and Louie 
had dubbed him a tyrant, and likened him to a 
slave driver. 

To be called a slave driver argues a high 
pitch of favour and intimacy. 

“ He would do very nicely,” cogitated the 
fond relative. “ Quite good-looking enough. 


100 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


And SO agi*eeable and good-liumoured. Dear 
Tom doubtless knows all about his character 
and principles ; Tom was always so particular 
about his friends, dear fellow. And as I ga- 
ther that Mr. Stafford has left the army and 
is in no profession, he must have some fortune. 
A man does not leave the army without having 
private means to fall back upon. Oh, I fancy 
we shall have everything settled very comfort- 
ably. But now, if dear Ida would only con- 
fide in me ! There are so many ways in which 
an older person can be of use. I could make 
up some little parties ; arrange some little even- 
ing entertainments. Ida is not — not — she was 
always remarkably independent as a child ; 
never seemed to need one, nor to turn to one ; 

but still, perhaps in the case of a lover ” 

and the result of such reflections had been that 
first of all it was absolutely necessary to find 
out if Maurice Stafford were, or were not, a 
lover. 

For this end Tom must now be detained. 

“ So every one complained, and grumbled, 
and finally left in dudgeon ? Veiy rude of 
them,” pronounced she, when the young man’s 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


101 


bosom had been discharged to the full ; veiy 
bad manners. Mr. Stafford showed himself a 
better bred man ” 

“ I don’t think it was that, you know, aunt 
Bess.” 

“ How not that, Tom ? ” 

I don’t believe it had anything to do with 
manners. If it had been only good manners 
we should have found it out among us sharp 
enough. We aren’t fools. People think we 
can’t see through them, but we do ; and I tell 
you what, even the children knew that Maurice 
was sorry for us, and sort of liked us.” 

“ I am sure he did. 1 never supposed for a 
moment that he did not. Still, he has pleasant 
manners, Tom.” Mrs. Lytton was hardly logi- 
cal. “ He has pleasant manners; and if he has 
also a good heart, all the better. I am sure, 
dear Tom, I — we — your uncle and I, would — 
would quite — we should quite approve of 
him.” 

She had reached her point ; Tom’s lips had 
actually opened for a reply, when — provoca- 
tion extraordinary !— a step was heard in the 
ante-room. 


102 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Had Mrs. Lytton been an impatient woman 
sbe must have bitten her tongue with chagrin, 
so unfortunate, so cruelly mistimed was an in- 
terruption at the moment. 

The moment was unique. She had caught 
her man, caught him in a complaining, confi- 
dential humour — (Tom was seldom confidential 
with anyone but his sisters) — and caught him, 
best luck of all, while yet the day was young, 
and there were many hours left in which she 
could plot and plan. 

And now to have to turn her head, and re- 
ply to the tittle-tattle of a calm intruder who 
merely wanted to know when the post went 
out, and if she had any letters to send ? 

It was her own slow-of-step and of speech 
husband who had meandered in, and who was 
now obtusely blundering on with one tiresome 
question after another, blind to her tapping 
foot and knitted brow. What evil spirit had 
sent him her way just now ? And there he 
must needs stand stolidly still upon the glow- 
ing hearth-rug with an air of having found a 
good place on a cold day, and of having all the 
day before him wherein to enjoy it. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


103 


Tom, too, liad turned to address his uncle, 
and opened a new conversation. There was no 
need to have done that. Had no one spoken 
to him, and had she looked, and winked, and 
coughed significantly, even her good John 
could hardly have failed to perceive that some- 
thing was expected of him, and his pei'ceptions 
might have been guided in the i*ight direction. 
He might have been got rid of under pressure. 
But to have Tom starting a moot question 
about farm hands and farm produce ! It was 
really annoying. Dire necessity sharpened her 
wits. 

“ Well, if I am to go out, I suppose I must 
put on my things,” she exclaimed, as though 
setting her seal to a previous compact. Will 
you wait for me one moment ? ” addressing her 
nephew, and shutting the lid of her recently 
opened wi*i ting-case with a snap. Writing and 
everything else must give way at a pinch. 
“As you say, Tom, the morning is too fine to 
be spent within doors. You shall escort me 
down to the ponds.” “And you shall tell me 
all about this interesting love-affair,” added 
the speaker, in her heart. 


104 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Tom signified acquiescence, and away slie 
went. 

It was something of an effort to go. Elderly 
ladies who have to resort to bonnets and 
mantles for outdoor wear, do not care about get- 
ting themselves veiled and gloved and rigged 
solemnly out at an early hour of the morning, 
more especially when there is but little chance 
of their being able to keep dry footed, and wlien 
they have to hold their skirts up on every side. 

Snow and frost are welcome visitants to the 
young; but if one cannot jump and shout and 
keep one’s blood boiling with mirth and exercise, 
they are robbed of some of their attractions. 
It is not wildly exhilarating to potter up and 
down a small space of swept ground, and make 
the most of every inch of clearance, even though 
the sun does shine overhead, and the landscape, 
pure and sparkling, cheer the eye. I fancy 
Tom’s aunt would have enjoyed the sunshine 
and the snowy scene more from her arm-chair in 
the boudoir window, where she had been so co- 
sily established before her nephew sought her 
out, than she did while trotting backwards and 
forwards along the slippery edge of the ponds. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


105 


And, after all, she Lad gained nothing by 
her little manceiivre. Tom, indeed, had been 
in the hall as in duty bound, when armed cap- 
a-pie she descended from her room ; but with 
him had been the two schoolboys,- her own 
boys, the pride and delight of her life, and it 
was exj)lained by both at once that they had 
come up on purpose to bring her down to the 
scene of action, and had cleared a path for her 
benefit, and borrowed a chair on which to wheel 
her about. 

The dear fellows ! It was impossible to be 
cross with them, or even to allow to her proud 
and gratified self that they had done the wrong 
thing. 

Her little talk with Tom must wait. Oh, 
what did it matter ? Nothing at all. She 
would really prefer to wait. She had said 
enough for one day. Mrs. Lytton had a knack 
of discovering that her inclinations had been 
forestalled in the most wonderful way by 
those precious boys of hers ; and, as a revela- 
tion of motherhood, it must be owned that 
whereas the offending husband had been tapped 
at and frowned at, the still worse offending 


106 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


sons were now received with open arras. Let 
those explain who can. Here was a model 
wife, devoted to a worthy spouse, and she 
could hurl secret anathemas at his head, where- 
as for the same high misdemeanor committed 
ten minutes later, she had nothing but kisses 
and smiles for the two great, sj)routing, awk- 
ward schoolboys. 

She even felt it fortunate that she had put 
on her bonnet when she did. It was so kind 
of dear Harry and Charlie to have come all the 
way across the park on purpose to fetch her. 
How should they suj)pose she had anything to 
say to Tom which they might not hear? 

With one on each side, and Tom piloting cheer- 
ily in front, she was bustling along ; and there- 
after spent the rest of the morning, as we have 
said, ranging round and round her narrow beat, 
and only thankful to be allowed to abide there- 
in, having at last been able to persuade her dar- 
lings that much as she felt indebted to them 
for the chair proposition, and absolutely as 
she trusted in their powers, her foolish fancy 
made her somehow happier upon terra firma. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


FROZE^f PONDS. 

But if the hapless chaperon were thus im- 
molated on the altar of the ice-god, the rest 
had a merry time of it. 

It had not escaped Mrs. Lytton’s eye that, 
on her first arrival upon the scene, the two on 
whom her thoughts were chiefiy bent were in 
close proximity, — Mr. Stafford was busily ad- 
justing afresh the skate straps of her eldest 
niece — and subsequently she had the satisfac- 
tion of perceiving that he was at least as much 
in Ida’s company as in that of anyone else. 
More could not honestly be said. 

Keen skaters revelling in a stretch of ice, 
clear as crystal, and untouched by the foot of 
man or beast, are in the mood for skating, not 
■flirting ; and to fiy and wheel, to laugh and 
shout, to grow rosy and out of breath and pull 
up only to exchange joyous greetings with 


108 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


others equally panting and radiant, form the 
business of the moment. Gaiety, merriment, 
mirth is the order of the day. 

Maurice Staiford, whose swift evolutions 
left behind all previous experience on the part 
of the others present, was apparently giving 
himself up to the enjoyment of the passing 
hour. His round face glowed with good-humour. 
He laughed back to the applauding circle, and 
merrily vied with himself as it were in the 
performance of fresh feats, whilst they gathered 
1‘ound, and the bolder among them essayed 
to imitate. A sort of freemasonry of jollity 
seemed to animate every breast, and even the 
pool* watcher on the bank strove to warm her- 
self at the universal flame. 

“ It does one good to see the dear children,” 
murmured she, with an involuntary shiver. 
“ Such an excellent amusement ! So healthy ! 
Dear Ida never looked better ! Scarlet suits 
her; and really how well Tom has managed 
after all ! To get his uncle and me down just 
when the denouement may be expected to take 
• place, and to hit otf the dear boys’ extra holi- 
days too ! So lucky to have this place to take 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


109 


them to when they had to be sent home a week 
before their usual time. Now if Tom and 
Ida wish it, we could easily stop on here over 
Christmas, or even lonorer. We mi^ht even 
stay to the end of the holidays. Of course if 
this engagement comes off, there would be a 
reason for doing so ; otherwise it would be a 
little awkward for Harry and Charlie to go 
back to school from here. Duckhill is rather 
a back-of-beyond place, ” 

Her cogitations were interrupted by a shout 
fi-om the ice. Mr. Stafford had succeeded in 
teaching Charlie one of his own figures, and 
Charlie was wildly signalling to his mother 
to witness his exhibition of it. Stafford was 
also calling to her. It needed but this touch 
to put the finish to the parent’s delighted ap- 
proval of the latter. He must be a very nice 
man,” said she to herself. 

Presently down came her husband from the 
liouse. He had found the house lonely. Not 
a sound had reached his ears since he was left 
solitary in it. He was tired of his book and of 
his own company, and the sight of a moving 
crowd — it is strange how few figures are re- 


no 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


quired to make up a crowd when forming the 
central objects of a snowy landscape — the 
cheery sight had proved in the end irresistible. 
With his cap turned down over his ears, and 
his thick coat well buttoned up, he was now 
seen tramping over the snow. 

“That’s right, John.” Mrs. Lytton was her- 
self again, — almost anyone to share her drearj 
watch would have been welcome, and she was 
really glad to see John this time, — “ that’^ 
right. It is far too fine to be wasting time 
indoors.” Her feet were cold as stones, and 
she had been aimlessly up and down the track 
a hundred times, but she still tried to think 
she was taking advantage of the beautiful 
morning. “ Here is a nice path that Tom has 
had cleared,” proceeded the speaker cheerfully. 

“ One need not go on the ice at all ” 

“ — Not go on the ice!” John burst out 
laughing. “ Not go on the ice 1 ” cried he. 
“ Good Lord ! What are you doing here, then ? 
Ho you mean to say,” fumbling down the 
bank as fast as he could get, “ do you mean 
to say you have been pottering up there — 
here, come down — here’s my hand” — he was 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Ill 


now safely established after a stagger or 
two — “ here, T6m — here — oh, Mr. Stafford, 
it’s yon? Will you kindly give my wife your 
hand ? Hoots, nonsense ! ” as she drew back. 
“ What are you afraid of ? The ice is strong 
enough. If it will bear me, it will bear you. 
Come along ” -i- 

“ — Pray come, Mrs. Lytton,” cried Maurice 
persuasively, and as he spoke he ran up the bank 
sideways in his skates. “ I have not bothered 
you before,” he went on, “because I thought 
you would like to grow accustomed to the look 
of the ice first; but now if you will let me 
guide you down, I give you my word I won’t 
let you fall, and you will enjoy yourself ever 
so much more, down among us all, than up here 
by yourself.” 

“ Do come, auntie,” cried Ida’s ringing voice 
behind him. 

“You can’t i*efuse Miss Barnet and me, con- 
jointly,” said Maurice, turning his head round. 
Something in his voice, and still more in his 
look, gave to the words a significance they had 
not otherwise possessed. Surely they Avere 
simple Avords enough, but they were not simple 


112 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


as Maurice Stafford spoke 1 ^ ii. J ust as an 



artful will compound a trilling dish out 
of the most ordinary ingredients, so will a ciiii' 
ning lover turn every trifle to account. A flush 
on the girl’s fair cheek betrayed that the shot 
had told. Maurice had once or twice of late 
said such tilings, things which if anyone else 
had ventured upon he would have known better 
than to rej)eat the offence. But this guest was 
not as other guests. He had stuck by the out- 
raged, humiliated, miserable little quartette in 
their need. He had cheered away their gloom, 
and thrown to the winds their heart-burnings. 
He had become privileged. 

Jenny and Louie, as we know, had learned 
to suspect that Ida would give way if they 
could back a request with “ Maurice sent us to 
ask you.” Tom found that he might quote 
Mr. Stafford without having his quotations 
snapped at and disposed of. It must be con- 
fessed that Ida was disposed to snap when she 
did not approve of Tom’s authority. Her nat- 
ure was freer, more independent than his; and 
though their tempei*s suited, and their aims 
in life were identical, the sister ivould occa- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


113 


sionally rely entirely on her own judgment, 
when Tom would seek General Thistleblow. 
But now both were of one mind. Tom openly 
hung upon Stafford’s lips ; Ida’s meek subser- 
vience betrayed his still more complete do- 
minion. 

But we digress. We left Mrs. Lytton halt- 
ing irresolute on the brink of the ice, one skater 
by her side importuning her to descend, the 
other from below seconding his entreaties. 
What could the good creature do but yield? 
She said afterwards that she knew beforehand 
she must fall. Stafford said she put her foot 
into a rabbit hole. Certain it was, that ere any 
one could intervene, or indeed see what had 
happened or was likely to happen, the victim 
of complaisance, who was stout and somewhat 
heavy, was on her knees plunging downwards; 
Stafford, who had been dragged down by hei-, 
was on his back, likewise slipping rapidly ; 
and Idci, who had advanced to the edge in order 
to facilitate the descent, was knocked sharply 
over, and lay upon the ice, her temples bathed 
in blood. Her head had struck against the 

sharp edge of the skate above. 

8 


114 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Had it not been for the cap of thick tweed 
which had been donned that morning at the 
bidding of her new master, the cut must have 
})een much more serious ; as it was, the brow 
had merely been grazed, and the cheek below 
laid open for about an inch. Ida indeed found 
the accident only laughable, strove to laugh, 
and — found the accents cleav^e to her tongue, 
and the faces around her grow dim. 

“ Water ! ” cried a voice in her ear, and the 
voice seemed to surge and thunder like a tliou- 
sand voices. Then all was still. She fainted 
away. 

We will pass over the scene of consternation 
and confusion which ensued. Water, which 
was eagerly demanded on all sides, was of 
course the very last thing to be obtained when 
every puddle on the grass was frozen ; and be- 
fore even an opening at the edge of the ice 
could be effected, some minutes of torturing 
suspense had to be undergone, since no one 
could say how deeply the cut had penetrated, 
nor whether the swoon was due to the sever- 
ity of the injuries sustained or to a lesser 


cause. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


115 


111 the tumult it escaped remark that Staf- 
ford, who had been the first to raise the un- 
conscious form from the ice, still held it in his 
arms, and strove to quench the stream which 
flowed from the cut by the pressure of Ida’s 
own little gossamer handkerchief, his face set 
as a flint, his brows heavily drawn together. 
The part should hardly have been taken by a 
stranger, and, although to this one the accident 
was due, he might have been relieved had any 
one — Tom, for instance — thought of relieving 
him. Tom, however, was thinking of nothing 
less. The moment his sister opened her eyes, 
and sighed with a consciousness of returning 
life, Tom’s own knees began to tremble omi- 
nously. He had been mortally frightened ; he 
had never in his life seen any one faint, and he 
was an attached brother. Dash it all ! He 
could not stand upright. 

“ Look out there ! He’s going too,” cried 
Stafford, chancing to glance round ; and, to his 
intense disgust, poor Tom found himself the 
next minute being gently escorted towards a 
strip of carpet on duty for a seat, while a brandy 
flask was held to his lips. His uncle John had 


116 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


produced the flask, and Ida had ali’eady had 
the benefit of it. All the mortification which 
had gone before was nothing to the shame of 
this. Very anger pulled the boy round. That 
he, a man, one-and-twenty years of age, should 
go off like a silly girl, and go off too without 
the excuse of a fall or a blow ! 

‘‘ Pooh ! That’s nothing,” said Stafford, sub- 
sequently. “ Lots of young fellows do it. On 
a hot day I have seen them fall forward on 
parade like a row of ninepins. And it’s a 
great deal worse seeing some one else hurt than 
being knocked over yourself, especially when 
it’s some one you — you care about. I don’t 
wonder at you, Tom, not in the very least. I 
assure you, I — between you and me — I felt un- 
commonly queer myself.” 

“ No ? You didn’t ? ” 

“ I did, upon my word. You see it was the 
sharp edge of my skate she struck against. I 
was slipping down the bank — your aunt 
dragged me down in her fall — between us we 
bowled over your sister — and it might have 
been a long way worse than it was, all things 
considered. But I got an awful fright when 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


117 


sbe fainted. The cut was nastily near a veiy 
bad place.” 

“ I know,” said Tom, in rather a sick voice, 

the temple.” 

Maurice nodded. I once saw that done,” 
he muttered to himself. 

‘‘Did you ? ” interrogatively. 

“ Yes. It was a bad business. We’ll hot 
talk of it. Your sister is all right anyway. 
Only I don’t wonder you were upset by the 
sight. You knew — as I did — what a near 
thing it was.” 

“ There he is again ! Such a comforting fel- 
low ! ” A minute before, the sorely humiliated 
youth had scarcely cared to look the older man 
in the face, now every sting which mortifica- 
tion had inflicted was withdrawn. Tom found 
himself quite ready for his luncheon, quite hun- 
gry for a good cut of the game pie which had 
been concocted out of sundry windfalls which 
had fallen to his gun since shooting again be- 
came a possibility, and quite able to play the 
host, with carving knife and fork uplifted. 

“ I hope we shall have Ida down at dinner,” 
he observed cheerily, “ but you must take her 


118 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


place till then, if you please, aunt Bess, and we 
will do as well as we can without her. Which 
of you are going to skate again in the aftei*- 
noon ? You boys, I know. But what do you 
say, Maud and Caroline ! ” — to some cousins of 
his own age, whose mother was the aunt Tibbie 
already referred to in these pages. 

The young ladies expressed their willingness 
to resume their skates. The afternoon was 
clear, and they were not too tired. It would 
be a shame to be content with only half a day. 
The speaker, Caroline, a fresh colored damsel, 
Avithout any pretensions to beauty, further 
added that she hoped and proposed to skate 
every day and all day long while there was 
frost in the air and ice on the pond, a senti- 
ment which met with general approval. 

“I only wish we could,” subjoined one small, 
anxious voice. 

“ And why can’t you ? ” was demanded of 
little Louie, to whom the sigh was traced. 

“ Lessons,” promptly. 

“ Lessons ? Oh. Haven’t your holidays be- 
gun yet ? ” inquired her uncle. “ Here are 
Harry and Charlie holiday making. To be 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


119 


sure, they came back a week too soon because 
of the measles or something. Why didn’t you 
get up a measles at your place too ? ” 

“ There is no one but us to get it up, uncle 
Jack.” 

^^[N’o one but you? Are you not at school, 
then ? ” 

We are not at school,” explained Jenny, 
patronisingly. “We do lessons at the vicar- 
age, and Mr. Stafford drives us there and back 
in the snow-plough every morning.” 

Mr. Stafford drives us ! Even Mr. Stafford 
felt uncomfortable. The remark was true 
enough; for the past three mornings he had 
steadily escorted the vicarage pupils to and fro 
on the little snow-plough, and only the Satur- 
day holiday had released him and them on the 
present occasion. But there was a breadth 
and comprehensiveness about the calm asser- 
tion which was somewhat embarrassing. It 
seemed to embrace the past, pi*esent, and future 
tenses all at once. “ Mr. Stafford drives us ” in- 
ferred that Mr. Stafford had been driving for an 
indefinite bygone period, and would continue to 
do so with an ecpially unlimited range in front. 


120 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Children are apt to make such assertions. 
Their horizons are narrow, and they become so 
soon acclimatised to any novel state of affairs, 
that they fail to realise it as either new, or 
temporary. How often does one hear “We 
always do this, or that,” from rosy mouths, 
which scarcely know what the word “always” 
means ! Then it becomes difficult to set such 
small blunders right, for they will demand 
chapter and verse which it is often not worth 
while giving, and tight every inch of the 
ground until an impression is left in their 
favour by the very pains which has to be taken 
to get rid of it. 

In the present case both Jenny’s brother and 
his guest were aware of a certain silence Avhich 
fell upon the party, consequent upon the little 
girl’s speech. 

Aunt Bess looked “ Oho ? ” Maud and Caro- 
line glanced at each other ; their mother’s eyes 
twinkled over the glass of sherry she was sip- 
ping; and only uncle Jack munched away as 
usual. 

“Lessons at the vicarage, eh?” quoth he, 
jocularly. “ ’Pon my word that’s a nice, easy 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


121 


way of being schooled. Haven’t you so much 
as a governess, then ? What do you do all the 
rest of the time ? Eun wild, eh ? ” 

“ We do our preparation,” retorted Jenny, 
scornfully. “We don’t need a governess to 
help us to do it ! ” emphasising the words 
with the grudge implanted by bitter memo- 
ries. “ And we don’t ‘ run wild ’ one bit more 
than we did when aunt Joanna was alive, and 
we had Mademoiselle with us all day long. 
Ida wouldn’t let us ‘ run wild ’ if we tried. 
She ” 

“ Lets you drive about on snow-jDloughs, eh % ” 

“We have to get to the vicarage, somehow, 
uncle Jack. And it is such fun — Mr. Stafford 
drives us ” 

(“Oh, blow!” ejaculated Stafford, inter- 
nally.) He had thought they were off the 
dangerous ground, and had been blessing his 
own self-control, and the old gentleman’s ob- 
tuseness for thus giving the subject the slip. 
To have it now cropping up again ! He must 
take notice this time. 

“We had a plough made on Tuesday, and 
they elected me charioteer for the nonce,” he 


122 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


turned to liis next-door neighbour, speaking so 
as to be heard by all. “ I daresay one of the 
boys will like to succeed to the post ” 

‘‘ Yes, rather,” from Harry, who was over 
the way. 

It was not bad fun,” continued Maurice, 
by his air transferring the privilege. “ It 
really wasn’t. The little pony goes awfully 
well. Only you must take care at the start. 
Just for the first few steps. He is all right 
for the rest of the time.” 

As he spoke a pair of earnest eyes regarded 
him, “ Aren’t you going to drive us at all, 
never again, then ? ” said little Louie. Her 
grammar was useful ; it afforded an occasion 
for a laugh, under cover of which the person 
appealed to could reply, “ You would rather 
have one of the boys, wouldn’t you ? ” and 
’twixt banter and rejoinder the subject died 
away of itself. 

In his own mind Mr. Stafford saw himself 
some one else’s charioteer, presently. The 
pretty sleigh was in good working order, and 
what better carriage could there be for an in- 
valid ? 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


123 


At the very same moment General Tliistle^ 
blow, communing with himself in the great hall 
of his club, was wondering why the devil Tom 
Barnet didn’t send those woodcock, and mus- 
ing how he should administer the cold douche 
he had in store for Master Tom, supposing the 
woodcock were not to appear at all. 


CHAPTER IX. 


PUTTING ON A GAME-BAG. 

“ What do you tliink about it ? ” said Maud 
to Caroline, directly tlie two were alone to- 
gether. 

Oh, I think it will do very well.” Her 
sister had alread}^ considered and decided upon 
the point. “ He is not handsome,” slie ob- 
served, however. 

“ Oh, no.” 

At first I thought him almost ugly — or at 
any rate, uninteresting — but I don’t think him 
uninteresting now. And how beautifully he 
skates. We must practise that circle this 
afternoon, Maud. As the men will be out 
shooting, there will be no one to see us, and we 
ought to be able to do it, if we have the whole 
afternoon’s practice by ourselves.” 

“ You may. I don’t expect I shall.” Maud 
was not so enthusiastic. wonder when it 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


125 


will come oif ! ” slie added, her mind running 
more upon bridesmaids’ dresses than the out- 
side edge. 

“Yes, indeed, so do 1. If Ida were like 
other girls, I should soon have it out of her ; 
but she and Tom are such queer, formal creat- 
ures. She has never let fall the slightest hint, 
and yet I am sure,” pausing to consider, “ yes, 
I am sure there is something to hint about, 
aren’t you ? It is Ida he is here for, isn’t it ? 
I wish she would say something. I will go to 
her boudoir and sit with her, after we come in ; 
perhaps she will let me have tea there ; she is 
to stay quiet for this afternoon, you know ; 
and then I will see what I can do. Now be 
quick ; the boys are waiting, and I am all 
ready.” 

“ Are Jenny and Louie coming too ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“Then why can’t we find out from them 
about Mr. Stafford ? ” 

“Try,” said Caroline, grimly. Already she 
had herself tried. 

“ Is it no good ? ” 

“ Either they don’t know anything, or they 


126 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


liave been drilled into not saying any tiling. If 
the last, I ne\^er met such close little creatures. 
I walked to the ponds with Jenny, and began 
carelessly — ‘ How nice Mr. Stafford is ! Have 
you known him long ? ’ What do you think 
she answered ? Simply this : ‘ I don’t knoAV 
about the others. Louie and I have only 
known him since he came here.’ Well, that 
told me nothing, of course ; so then I tried this 
— I said, ‘ He has been here a long time, hasn’t 
he? ’ As demurely as possible, she replied, ‘ He 
came to shoot.’ As if coming to shoot entailed 
a residence of weeks in the house ! ‘ Well,’ I 

said, ^ I hope he will stay, as he is here, for he 
seems so good-humoured and jolly ; just the 
right sort of man to have in a country house ! ’ 
And not one single word did she say in reply ! 
I couldn’t go on after that, you know ; it 
would have seemed as if I were looking after 
him for myself.” 

Did you see his face at the accident ? ” 

“I did not think much of that. Anyone 
would have been in a fright, when it was his 
skate that cut her head.” 

‘‘ Fancy Tom’s turning sick ! ” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


127 


“ Ob, Tom ! Tom’s only a boy,” rejoined 
her sister, contemptuously. Boys of that age 
faint when they are vaccinated, or see anyone 
else vaccinated ! They do ; I know. Tom 
thinks he is fearfully old and grand — but he is 
really a very mild youth. It makes me laugh 
to see his anxious face going about. He is so 
dreadfully in earnest over every trifle ; and 
when anything goes wrong, he looks as if the 
world were coming to an end ! If any real 
evil were to befall one of them, I verily be- 
lieve it would break poor Tom’s heart.” 

The last words were spoken as the sisters 
emerged from their bedroom, and the speaker 
had to lower her voice in order not to be 
overheard. 

In the large square hall below, there were 
several people assembled. Tom and Maurice 
Stafford were starting for the woods ; Mrs. 
Lytton was luxuriously watching their equip- 
ment, and toasting her toes at the huge fur- 
nace which warmed the hall ; and the boys 
were hovering round, fingering and inquiring. 
Jenny and Louie were not, however, visible. 

“They are in their schoolroom,” explained 


128 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Toin, in answer to his cousins’ interrogation. 
“ Saturday is a holiday, so they are not at 
work there, and I believe they are all ready to 
go off with you as soon as they are called ; 
but we don’t allow them to be hanging about 
downstairs.” 

Perhaps they are with Ida ? ” suggested 
Maud Western. 

Maurice Stafford looked up quickly. 

“ Oh, I don’t suppose so,” said Tom. The 
schoolroom is their place after luncheon, until 
they are called. Are you ready, Maurice? We 
ma}^ as well be off now.” 

“ One moment,” said Maurice. “ This— ah — 
strap is not quite tight enough. I think you 
are right, Miss Western,” in an undertone, 
“ Jenny ran along to her sister’s room just now. 
She will be back immediately. Bother this 
strap — I must bore a new hole — your knife, 
Tom — shan’t keep you a second.” A flying 
step was heard on the staircase. “ I thought 
so, here she conies.” The last words being ut- 
tered in the same subdued aside, which was 
only for the ear of the nearest person. Then 
the speaker glanced upwards. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


129 


It was obvious that his messenger — if Jenny 
were a messenger — had not expected to find so 
many in the hall on her return from the em- 
bassy, and on perceiving who were present in 
addition to her brother and Maurice, her step 
slackened, till finally she descended the last 
few steps of the broad, old-fashioned staircase, 
dropping from one to the other, as though 
about to come to a standstill on each. 

There’s your knife, Tom,” said Maurice, 
loudly. The next moment, with a sudden 
hasty diligence whicli had the effect of scatter- 
ing the group to right and left, he was press- 
ing swiftly by the new arrival who still stood 
undecided at the bottom of the staircase. 

“ Come along, Tom. Jenny, will you sling 
on this bag for me ? ” 

He inclined his head towards Jenny as he 
spoke. She raised her arms and the game- 
bag was dropped over it. The two heads were 
very near together, and something — but no 
other person present could hear what — cer- 
tainly did pass between the two. 

It might have been a mere remark, or inter- 
rogation on his part, and rejoinder on hers. It 

9 


130 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


might have related solely to the service she 
was rendering him. On the other hand, it 
might have been a sovereign’s demand of his 
envoy how she had sped upon a mission, and 
the envoy’s laying of her report at her master’s 
feet. 

Maud Western, who could see, though she 
could not hear, inclined to think it was the last. 

“He did it beautifully — just beautifully,” 
cried the little ambassadress, howevei‘, to her- 
self. “Nobody could ever have guessed. And 
I didn’t know how I was ever to get at him 
with all those heaps of peo|)le standing by, 
and uncle Jack who always will talk to me 
whenever I go near, as if on purpose to draw 
Tom’s attention, so that Tom begins at once 
with his ‘Why are you nbt in the school- 
room ? ’ As if I’m not in the schoolroom for 
hours — as if I’m not ahvays in the schoolroom 
whenever I am not out of it ! Maurice is the 
only person that ever seems to think Louie and 
I shouldn’t be in the schoolroom all day long. 
And I was determined to get at him — deter- 
mined. Tom couldn’t stop that. I do hope 
Tom won’t stop his going. But there, I don’t 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


131 


suppose Maurice would let him stop it,” and 
thus pondering and cogitating, the little girl 
trotted along by the side of the skaters, her 
mind running as fast as her feet, and the blood 
in her veins dancing with excitement. 

She had been sent up to Ida — sent, as instinct 
told her, with a secret message — for which a 
secret answer was desired. 

Not a syllable had been breathed regard- 
ing this secrecy. Maurice had not even taken 
her apart, or dropped tlie casual observation 

Don’t say anything about it : ” but he had 
by apparent chance found his way to the far- 
away schoolroom, the despised haunt of the 
schoolroom pair, and by real good luck found 
the elder of the pair, and her own especial 
friend, alone therein. 

Then this had followed : Jenny, you’re go- 
in^ skating this afternoon ? ” 

o o 

“Yes.” 

“ All of you ? ” 

“ Yes, all of us.” 

“ And your uncle Jack, and aunt Bess, and 
your other aunt are going to drive in the 


132 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


“Yes. It is ordered round at three o’clock. 
Uncle Jack is to drive.” 

“ Your sister Ida will be all alone ? ” 

Jenny nodded. 

“ Don’t you think she would like to have 
some one go in and sit with her ? ” 

Jenny smiled. 

“ But you see Tom and I are going off shoot- 
iiig.” 

Jenny was all attention. 

“You ask your sister tins,” said Maurice, 
drawing nearer, “ mind you say these very 
words. Ask her fi*om me, whether, if I should 
come in from shooting presently, while the rest 
are out of doors, she would let me come and 
see her in the boudoir? I say,” as the little 
girl was about to start on the instant, “ don’t — 
don’t startle her, you know. Just take your 
own time, and do it quietly — not before other 
people.” 

“ Oh, there’s no one with her.” 

“All right. Go when there’s no one with 
her, and you can just tell me quietly too, you 
know. Other people are only bothers, aren’t 
they? They don’t understand about things. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


138 


But you understand, don’t you? Well, you 
just manage it and— and I can wait here till 
you come back.” 

But lie had not been able to' wait there till 
she came back. 

Tom had missed his fellow-sportsman, and 
begun to look for him and to shout for him, 
long before the faithful little girl had accom- 
plished her task, so that he had been reluctant- 
ly compelled to quit his stronghold and come 
forth, lest suspicion should be awakened, and 
curiosity set afoot. He had, however, trusted 
Jenny. 

Jenny’s face had crimsoned and her eyes had 
lighted up while he spoke ; she had been so 
proud of the trust reposed in her, and so im- 
pressed with the gravity of her mission, that 
intelligence had beamed in every feature, and 
Maurice had felt confident that, whatever hap- 
pened, she would not betray him. 

In consequence he had joined Tom in the 
hall, secure of being found there, and of finding 
some means of communicating with his accom- 
plice. Her slower step and wistful perplexity 
at sight of his companions was exactly what he 


134 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


had anticipated, and we know how he contrived 
to break through the barricade suiTounding him 
and obtain her ear. 

In the moment of bending his head to re- 
ceive the large leathern game-bag, which he had 
put into the quickly-comprehending Jenny’s 
hands, he murmured, “ Will she see me ? ” and 
the answer he received was conveyed in the 
single word “ Yes.” 

Thus Miss Western was not at fault in con- 
sidering that a transaction of some importance 
took place beneath her very nose, though in- 
audible to her ear, before she set forth on her 
skating expedition. 


CHAPTER X. 


A sportsman’s trick. 

Brilliant winter mornings have an ugly trick 
of turning into dull and misty afternoons, and 
though the various parties at Duckhill Manor 
were not prevented from setting forth on their 
several expeditions, the glory of the day had 
departed ere the sun had begun to decline, and 
nothing but shooting, skating, or sleighing 
would have kept anybody out of doors after 
three o’clock. 

But what cannot people put up with who 
are healthy, good-humoured, and on pleasure 
bent ? What cannot even women do, who 
make up their minds to do it ? 

Had the peevish tine ladies, Tom Barnet’s 
first guests, been still at Duckhill, scarce a foot 
indeed would have stirred out of doors after 
the plenteous luncheon which followed the ef- 
forts of the morning. Mrs. Jessop would have 


136 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


retired to her bedroom sofa ; Lady Sophia 
Clarke to the writing-table; and the rest to 
fancy-work and novelettes ; but the aunt Bess, 
and aunt Tibbie who now set forth, gallantly 
escorted by uncle Jack, in the cosy little sleigh, 
were of stouter stuff; while Maud and Caro- 
line were, as we know, impervious to weather, 
and as keen on outcloor exercise as a couple of 
spaniels. 

“ They are all right enough,” ruminated 
Maurice Stafford. “ Even if those gii*ls talk 
of coming in — which they won’t — Jenny will 
take care they do nothing of the kind. It was 
a happy thought to enlist her on my side. The 
old ladies are disposed of famously,” — he had 
seen the sleigh traversing a piece of open 
ground shortly before — “and not a soul has 
been left behind. Now to effect my own es- 
cape.” 

He took out his watch. It was half -past 
three. The driving-party must have been late 
in setting off, since they could not have taken 
half an hour in reaching the spot they were at, 
when sighted. All the better — they would cer- 
tainly not be in for another hour. The field 


THE OKE GOOD GUEST. 


137 


would be clear for full three-quarters of an 
hour after he should have got home, after 
which — oh, after which — he laughed. He 
would not trouble about that “ after which.” 
He would leave it to take care of itself. So far, 
luck, or fate, or Providence, had provided for 
him ; and with the present alone he had to do. 

Tom was on in front. Should he say any- 
thing to Tom ? Somehow he had a great dis-' 
like to saying anything. Tom was not the 
sort of man to whom certain things come easy 
to say. There was a chain armour of solemn 
innocence about Tom Barnet which was well 
enough in its way, but formed a barrier be- 
twixt him and other young men of his age, 
even as it irritated, and, after a fashion, hu- 
miliated his elders. 

“ He is so infernally pompous,” old Thistle- 
blow used to say. 

Perhaps he was a little pompous ; perhaps 
he was a little stiff and rigid and dictatorial. 
Certainly neither his sympathies nor his emo- 
tions lay on the surface, and even when secure 
of approval it was formidable to approach him 
with confidence. 


138 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Oil, I can’t bother about Tom,” Maurice 
came to a conclusion, hastily. I must just 
have a headache, or something. I hav^e a bit 
of a headache from the fright this morning. 
If he kicks up a row, I can speak out ; but if 

he let’s me slip off quietly, I will Hullo ! 

Tom ! ” 

Tom turned round. 

Sh ! ” he whispered. “ ’Ware. Duck ! ” 

“ I’m going to leave them to you,” whispered 
Maurice back. — fact is — I can’t go on. 

Beastly headache. Never mind — nothing to 
mind about,” all in the same undertone. “You 
go on ; I’ll turn back. I know my way ; it’s 
just down here, and over that field. Don’t 
bother about me — it’s all right. Ta-ta.” And 
before his companion could recover from his 
astonishment, the speakei* had put some paces 
between the two, and was clearing the ground 
homewards at as rapid a rate as the broken, 
snowy track permitted. 

Tom stood still, staring ; rubbed his eyes, 
and stared again. Then a slow smile crept 
over his face. He began to comprehend. 

“ But he will never see her. She is not 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


189 


down,” he muttered to himself. “ If she had 
only known about it, and got down to the 
drawing-room ! She could have done it per- 
fectly, if we had had the least idea ; she was 
not so bad but that it could have been man- 
aged. Now he will have given up his shoot- 
ing all for nothing. I had better call him 
back.” He drew breath for a shout, then let 
it die away unuttered, “ I am not supposed to 
know what he has gone for ; I had forgotten 
that. Stupid fellow ! If he had only had it 
out with me, I could have told him there was 
no earthly use in trying to see Ida this after- 
noon. Of course he may manage it, if he likes 
to send up to her, and she likes to come down 

to him ,” then suddenly he stopped short. 

“ By Jove ! — what a fool I am ! ” A vision of 
Maurice’s ]*eluctance to start earlier in the 
afternoon, and a recollection that he had won- 
dered wdiether his fellow-sportsman really 
wished to shoot, or whether he were not linger- 
ing out of disinclination, hashed upon his mind. 
He remembered that Maurice had not jumped 
at the idea of shooting. At the time, he had, 
indeed, when begged to say if he preferred the 


140 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


ice, given liis vote for the woods ; but, and all 
at once, it was borne in upon the elder broth- 
er’s mind, that if his guest had been absolutely 
free to decide, he would have chosen neither ; 
he would have preferred another quest. 

And Jenny, too ? He had seen Jenny come 
flying down from Ida’s room, and whisper 
something in Maurice’s ear. At the time he 
had thought nothing of it, nay, one might al- 
most say he had^seen nothing of it. But there 
are sights which, like the photographic plate, 
are invisible at first, to become gradually de- 
veloped, as it were, to the inward eye ; and 
this was one of them. 

“ By Jove ! I am a fool ! ” reiterated Tom, 
internally. “ There is something up. Well, 
now, had I better be out of the way, or had I 
not ? I’m not wanted, of course ; but can they 
manage without me ? How if those others go 
in? As likely as not they will want to go in, 
just because they are particularly desired to 
keep out. Those Western girls will turn cold, 
or something ; or uncle Jack will funk the 
driving and bring the sleigh back, if he has not 
done it already,” — he had not seen the sleigh 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


141 


go by when Maurice did — “ well, now, what 
am I to do ? ” he cogitated. “ If I stay out I 
shall get some cocks, that’s a fact ; but if they 
go and botch matters at home it won’t do. I 
had better let the cocks slide. I know what 
will put it straight. I’ll go round by the vil- 
lage, and bring up the letter-bag. That will 
be an excuse : and I do expect letters, and we 
might have to answer them ; so I can say I 
went to bring them early. It’s rather a pity,” 
and he looked wistfully round. 

The afternoon was not brilliant, as we have 
said, but it was eminently workmanlike. It 
meant good luck, and a good bag. 

Tom had inherited enough of his father’s 
tastes to make him appreciate such an after- 
noon, and if he had ever yet- been disposed to 
be vexed with Maurice Stalford it was in the 
present instance, fdji* spoiling such a golden op- 
portunity. If it had been anyone but Maurice, 
he would have been affronted and indignant ; 
as it was, he felt rueful. It was a pity, he 
thought, a monstrous pity. To be sure, men in 
love were not to be put on the same level as 
other men ; they were, in a manner, not ac- 


142 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


countable ; allowances must be made for them 
— bub all the same, if Maurice could only have 
put o£E till the next day, Sunday — Sunday 
would have been the best day in all the week 
for a proposal to have come olf. 

He presumed it was a proposal which Mau- 
rice was about to make. Ida was certainly 
warranted in expecting one ; they were all so 
warranted. Everything had tended in that di- 
rection. Discretion had been the order of the 
day — but they were not blind. He and Ida 
knew all about such things. The little ones, of 
course, knew nothing, and suspected nothing — • 
that was as it should be. 

But his good aunt Bess had seen the whole 
in the twinkling of an eye ; and, perhaps, had 
there been another minute’s confidence between 
him and her, he might have been led into say- 
ing something which, on the whole, he was 
now glad he had not said. If it should turn 
out that there was something real and tangible 
to announce on the return of his aunt from her 
drive, it would be infinitely better in every 
way. He should be spared advice and proffers 
of assistance — and such advice and such 2:)rof' 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


143 


fers were precisely what our very young man 
most disliked. 

“ If I could announce the engagement, what 
a score it would be ! ” he now exclaimed. lie 
was always wanting to “ score.” The shooting 
party had not been a “ score ; ” but if Maurice 
Stafford should prove to be one, he felt he 
could forgive the shooting party. 

Meantime, Maurice made his way over the 
rough ground, having first carefully taken out 
his cartridges and uncocked his gun ; — and 
someone from an upper window watched him 
coming. 

Ida had forsfotten that she was an invalid — 
foi’o^otten that she had been left alone in her 
little boudoir to rest and sleep — forgotten alto- 
gether that she should have been lying among 
the sofa-pillows in her cosy dressing-gown, as 
aunt Bess had left her, directly aunt Bess left 
the house. Long before aunt Bess had be- 
stowed her farewell kiss, the ungrateful niece 
had been fretting with impatience. The sleigh 
had been ordered for three, and the clocks all 
round had struck three fully five minutes be- 
fore her aunt had entered. Up to that time 


144 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Ida had endured with what grace she might, 
but every moment after three meant a loss of 
time. 

Mrs. Lytton’s tender little inquiries and 
ministrations, her fussing hither and thither, 
her settling of the warm shawl over her dear 
Ida’s feet, her building-up of the fire and draw- 
ing-down of the blinds — all so kindly meant — 
were so many offences. At length, “ Oh, pray 
leave the blinds up, dear auntie,” had burst 
forth with a petulance which rather surprised 
the self-appointed nurse. 

‘‘ Poor dear ! slie is irritable — her nerves 
have been upset,” murmured she. Then aloud, 
“ Well, good-bye, dear child, and do try to get a 
little sleep ; it will do you so much good. The 
house is quite quiet ; no one but the servants in 
it. But I have told them to listen carefully 
for your bell. Oh, dear ; you will have to 
get up to reach the bell -rope- — that is a pity ! 
Now, could we not contrive a cord ? ” cogitat- 
ing. “ I have often seen a cord in a sick- 
room ” 

But this is not a sick-room, aunt Bess ! 
Pray don’t trouble ; pray don’t stay any longer ; 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


1-45 


I can get up and ring the bell, perfectly, if 
I want to ring it. Uncle Jack is waiting, I 
am sure,” with a restive movement. 

“ It seems so selfish to leave you lying 
here.” 

“ Not the least selfish. You know I am told 
to be quiet.” 

“ So you are ; and you look very comfort- 
able,” glancing round. ‘‘ You are sure there is 
nothing else I can do, no little comfort ” 

“ Quite — quite sure.” 

Then I will go,” reluctantly. “We shall 
not be ^one lono;.” 

“ Oh, please, aunt Bess,” in her earnestness 
Ida rose upon her elbow ; “ please be as long as 
ever you like — as long as ever you can. I will 
not have you coming back because of me. 
Uncle Jack has been told where to drive and 
you must,” with rising emphasis, “ leave it to 
him. Promise me you will. Nothing would 
vex me more than your cutting short your 
drive ; and, indeed, you know,” blushing, for 
Ida was not used to strategy, “you know I was 
to be kept quiet, so that the longer you are 
away the better for me. The doctor said if I 


10 


146 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


felt quite rested by to-niglit, I might come 
down to dinner. I do want to come down to 
dinner.” 

“ Certainly. To be sure. We all want that,” 
her aunt beamed. 

“ Then good-bye, and do stay out a long, 
long time,” whispered Ida, her voice suddenly 
fading into softness. “ Good-bye ! ” and she 
held up her face for a kiss. ‘‘ Good-bye.” 

“ God bless you, dear child.” It was so 
sweet to hear her say ^ Good-bye ’ like that,” 
mused the fond relation with moist eyes. 
‘‘‘ One forgets all dear Ida’s little asperities the 
moment they are past.^ She will grow out of 
them, and at heart she is the same affection- 
ate ”) — Yes, yes, coming, my dear, com- 
ing,” in response to loud demands from with- 
out. “ Coming, coming, coming,” looking back 
to nod, and smile, and wave her hand once 
more. ‘‘ Coming, coming, coming,” and the 
door of the boudoir closed at last. 

Ida bounded from the sofa and kicked the 
shawl on to the floor. 

“ I don’t care whether it is safe or not,” she 
exclaimed. “ I must go and get ready, or he 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


147 


may be back before I have got on my things. 
Ob, my head is really a little dizzy,” dropping 
it on her hand. ‘‘Perhaps I had better not 
dress my hair again. But this old dressing- 
gown must disappear, and if I put on my red 
cloth it may do for the evening ; at least, it 
may pass as having been put on for the even- 
ing — but they don’t catch me sitting down to 
dinner in it, all the same ! Now then,” and 
she slipped noiselessh^ over the carpet, and into 
her own room which was on the other side of 
the landincy. 

In ten minutes all traces of invalid attire 
had disappeared, and the figure which sat in 
the boudoir window watching for Maurice 
Stafford, was the one which ordinarily met his 
view when admitted to that calm retreat. 

Twice of late he had been admitted there. 
He had found out whither his companion on 
the snow-car was wont to retreat after the 
“ ride ” was over — Ida had had her “ ride” in 
the afternoons — and had on one occasion fol- 
lowed her abstractedly up the staircase and 
along the gallery, talking all the time. 

At the door of the boudoir they had both 


148 


THE ONE 0001) GUEST. 


stood still. But the door was open, and Mau- 
rice had looked absently inside. 

“ Is this your sanctum ? May I come in ? ” 
he had inquired, as though he might have been 
saying, “ Is this your door-mat ? May I tread 
upon it ? ” It would have been absurd to re- 
fuse permission. 

The next day, perceiving there was to be a 
repetition of the scene, Ida had called her little 
sisters to her, and Louie had come, but Jenny’s 

preparation ” had not been complete. Still, 
even little Louie had been a third person, and 
Ida — poor, proud, prudent Ida — had felt the 
need of a third person. 

^Mf my mother had been alive I should not 
have been forced to think of this,” she had told 
herself ; “ but I have only Tom to fall back 
upon, and Tom — Tom did not know about 
yesterday.” 

She could not tell him; but she had resolved 
to guard against such another hour as that 
which Maurice, the thief, had stolen so clev- 
erly ; and the result had been Louie’s chaper- 
on age. 

Now, however, even Louie was to be dis- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 14‘J 

pensed with. A man can hardly be expected 
to offer his heart and hand to the woman of his 
choice in the presence of another — child thougli 
that other be — and the nature of the message 
Avhich was delivered almost into her sister’s ear 
by the sympathetic and deeply exulting Jenny 
on the afternoon in question, if it meant any- 
thing, meant a crisis. 

It had thrilled through every vein of the 
hearer like an electric shock. For a few sec- 
onds Ida had been too deeply startled to speak 
— almost to breathe; then she made the other 
repeat over and over what had transpired, re- 
gardless of what Jenny might think, in her hot 
and cold anxiety to know the exact truth, its 
limits and its possibilities — and in reply had at 
length burdened the eager messenger, who was 
impatient to be off, with the single monosylla- 
ble which was all sufficient. 

And now she sat watching and quaking. 
There he was ! A dark figure looming large 
through the frosty fog. He was coming from 
the very point she expected. She had felt sure 
he would come from that point. He must have 
broken off from Tom on the marshy ground at 


150 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


the head of the stream, just where snipe and 
woodcock and wild duck were most plentiful. 

Poor Tom wouldn’t like it,” said Ida, with 
a smile. 

It pleased her to think that Maurice had 
chosen the favourite piece of sporting ground 
for turning his back upon the feathered prey ; 
and it wiped out the remembrance of his pre- 
vious offence in connection with the first snow 
ride, and seemed a soi*t of expiation of that 
crime. He had put all aside to come to her now. 

And how fast he was coming ! 

He must not, however, find her at the win- 
dow ; and accordingly she withdrew behind the 
curtain, leaving a tiny peephole whence still to 
see without being seen. 

Now he was at the white gate ! 

The gate had a sharp click as it swung to, 
and as the click sounded Ida drew back still 
further. The room was radiant with fire-light, 
and who could tell whether she might not be 
detected somehow and somewhere if she re- 
mained within the range of observation ? 

She could not see, but she could listen. 

The boudoir was on the second floor of a 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


151 


wing whose storeys were lower than those of 
the main building. Maurice’s tread on the 
frozen gravel from which the snow had been 
swept, sounded loud and distinct as he 
tramped past, and the quick ears of the 
watcher above could even detect that he halted 
at one of the side entrances to the house, in- 
stead of going in by the front door — the rea- 
son for doing which she divined at once. 

II is boots are dirty and wet,” she said ; 
“ and he thinks he will come in by the back 
hall, and up the back staircase. He forgets, 
however, that he will have to take his gun 
along.” 

It was a strict rule of the house that guns 
were to be left in the gun-room, and Maurice 
had hitherto been careful to obey all rules. 
Was he about to transgress on the present oc- 
casion ? She glided to the door of the bou- 
doir, and slipped it ajar ; but there was no 
echo of clamped boots upon the stone floor of 
the hall. 

Neither did the swing-door fly back. Its 
well-known whistling creak could penetrate 
anywhere if stirred up by a passer through. 


152 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Instead, someone was quickly ascending. 
In a terrible fright poor Ida fled back to her 
sofa, feeling that she had never had a narrower 
escape in her life. 

The next minute she was laughing at her- 
self. 

Her own maid, Flowers, was tapping at the 
door, and in Flowers’ hand was the old-fash- 
ioned leathern letter-bag still in vogue at 
Duckbill Manor. All at once it became clear 
that the bearer of this had been mistaken for 
the person expected by a foolish girl whose 
eyes had been directed by her he^rt. 

Yet she could hardly blame herself. The 
afternoon letters were rarely delivered before 
four at the earliest, often not till live o’clock ; 
how came they to be up so early to-day ? 

“ The bag was sent up from the post-office 
without Thomas going to fetch it, miss,” ex- 
plained Flowers. “ Mrs. Bowdler asked her 
baker — though he’s not our baker,” — in paren- 
thesis — ‘Ho give it a lift, and he just left his 
cart at the turn of the road and ran across 
with it himself. A very civil man is Mr. Pud- 
diefat, and always ready to oblige.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


153 


Ida took the bag. 

^‘Mr. Puddiefat ! ” echoed she to herself. 

And so it was only you., Mr. Puddiefat ! 
Did anyone ever hear such a name ? ” pettishly, 
for it was vexing to have had all her heart- 
beatings for nothing. Who would ever have 
supposed the letter-bag would come that way, 
and come at this hour ? Who wants the letter- 
bag now ? ” 

From force of habit, however, she took the 
key from her girdle, and the very first envelope 
which made its appearance was directed to 
herself. 

The handwriting was bold and determined, 
and Ida knew whose it was ; she had seen it 
several times of late. Usually, moreover, it 
had been beheld with some interest, as being 
likely to convey intelligence of importance, 
which up to a certain date it had certainly 
done — but since the collapse of the shooting 
party no one had cared much to hear from 
Lady Sophia Clarke ; and neither had Lady 
Sophia cared to write. 

What could she be writing about now ? 

“ I may as well open it,” said Ida, idly ; 


154 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“ there are no others for me,” turning over the 
pile upon her lap. “ It will look better foi* 
him to find me busy. I can be sitting here in 
the window to make the most of the lio^ht, 
now that it has turned into such a dark after- 
noon. He may come any minute, now. Well, 
what says Lady Sophia ? ” and she opened 
Lady Sophia’s letter with the indifference of a 
babe smiling down* into the gulf of Fate. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE CONTENTS OF THE POST-BAG. 

Lady Sophia Clarke was one of those 
women who conceive themselves born to set 
straight the atfairs of tlie world. 

From earliest years she had loved to know 
everything, and to decide upon everything that 
went on around her. No change could be made, 
no servant dismissed in her father’s household, 
without the whole state of the case having to 
be made known to the inquisitive child or, as 
years passed, to the authoritative young lady. 
The family, from its head downwards, had al- 
most openly rejoiced in their freedom conse- 
quent upon her marriage ; and it had been pre- 
sumed that the domineering talents which had 
made her ladyship a bugbear and a nuisance so 
far, would develop into virtues when transferred 
to a sphere which should be legitimately her 


own. 


156 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Unluckily for such prognostications Lady 
Sophia had no family. A dozen children 
might have atforded scope sufficient even for 
her energies ; but wealth, leisure, a husband 
who was seldom in the house, and a house- 
keeper of whom she herself stood in awe, and 
who ruled the establishment with a rod of iron, 
left its nominal mistress free to manage the 
concerns of all her acquaintance. 

Primarily she was, as we have already shown, 
a doctor. No recognised physician could drug 
and diagnose with a firmer conviction in his 
own judgment. Had Colonel Jessop’s silly 
wife only known what was good for her, she 
would never have declined dandelion or any 
other tea prescribed by Lady Sophia, when de- 
sirous of winning her way in Chesterfield Gar- 
dens. On that point, indeed, it might almost 
be said that Lady Sophia was soft ; and cer- 
tainly a believer in her favourite plaster would 
have had a better chance with her than any 
other aspirant for her august benediction. 

But people cannot be always ill, and j)eople 
can be almost always in need of advice — or so 
thought this arbitress of human fate ; and if 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


157 


they would only have come to her for the val- 
uable commodity which she had ever in hand, 
she would have seen to it that nothing went 
wrong, as things always were going wrong in 
the world around her. It was her grievance that 
she was obliged to seek out, instead of being 
sought. 

I have had such a fatiguing errand,” she 
would announce. “ That tiresome business of 
the So-and-So’s has taken up my entire day. 
I have had to hurry from place to place, and 
talk the hour to stupid creatures who could 
not be made to see the plain facts of the 
case.” 

It would not occur to the speaker that the 
“ stupid creatures ” were more stubborn than 
stupid ; and that the interest taken by an out- 
sider in a family affair, and her resolution to 
direct and supervise and say what every one was 
to do, and how they all ought to feel, was sim- 
ply regarded as so much meddlesome im- 
pertinence. 

Ida Barnet had pronounced the principal 
personage of her first house- party a very rude 
woman ; and Tom had exclaimed, Like her 


158 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


clieek ! behind backs. Other tongues than 
theirs often made use of the same phrase. 

But rudeness and “ cheek” are seldom openly 
resented when exhibited by an earl’s daughter 
whose position is assured, and whose entourage 
is imposing. 

Lady Sophia lived in state, travelled in state, 
received and entertained in state — wherefore, al- 
though it may be said, and truly, that none of 
this warranted the ill-breeding whereof she was 
accused, there is no denying the fact that she 
was preserved by it from the rebulfs which 
would have been the lot of any humbler vag- 
abond. 

^‘Vagabond” was Sir Robert’s own term as 
applied to his wife. He did not interfere with 
Lady Sophia’s vagabond ish habits, and indeed 
considered them in the light of a safety valve 
for feverish vivacity which might otherwise 
have been turned in a less harmless direction — 
but he laughed oft the matter to his friends. 

She is such a deuced active woman, she must 
be always doing something ; so she is on the 
trot day and night ; a perfect vagabond,” he 
would say, as from his club-window he belfeld 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


159 


the welhknown barouche with its well-known 
occupant roll past. And then he \vould wonder 
comfortably to himself whither the barouche 
was bound, and who was now having the benefit 
of Lady Sophia’s sharp-edged wisdom ? 

It had amused Sir Kobert in his quiet way 
to perceive that none of poor Tom Barnet’s 
children paid homage to their august relation. 
His wife was their father’s cousin ; and on first 
arriving at Duckhill a good deal had been made 
of the cousinship, and of sundry reminiscences 
connected with Tom and Ida’s childish days ; 
but these had gradually lapsed ; and although 
Lady Sophia had held on to the tie of blood as 
affording a claim to correct and instruct, to 
pounce upon deficiencies, and shake her finger 
at irregularities, she had not taken kindly 
enough to the young people, either generally 
or collectively, to desire that in future they 
would call her “ Cousin Sophia.” 

Ida, in particular, had irritated her — as she 
had irritated Ida. It had been a vast conde- 
scension on the part of Lady Sophia and Sir 
Robert to betake themselves down to a dull 
country house many hours from town, in the 


160 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


dead of winter — and her ladyshiji for one, had 
nofc found such condescension appreciated. 

We, who see behind the scenes, know that it 
was appreciated; that host and hostess were 
alike in an agony of agitation and excitement 
over the whole atfair ; but they had too much 
sense to be profoundly grateful. Very well 
did they know to what was due the appear- 
ance not only of the Clarkes, but of all the 
other invited guests; and it was this knowl- 
edge which served to intensify the despair sub- 
secpiently experienced. 

To shoot had the party come — not to be- 
friend. 

But Lady Sophia, who had made a virtue 
of satisfying her own curiosity, as well as her 
husband's love of sport, had considered that the 
young people would be as wax in her hands. 
She had ordered about their father, the scat- 
tei‘-brained Tom Barnet whose laugh was la- 
mented by General Thistleblow ; and of course 
she would order about the present generation 
also. 

The present generation had revolted. 

Tom, the new Tom, had listened respectfully. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


161 


it is true ; but lie had done none of the things 
Lady Sophia told him to do ; while Ida had 
absolutely displayed temper superadded to 
rebellion. It had ended by her calling Ida 
in her own mind, and to Sir Robert, ‘‘ that 
girl.” 

“ That girl thinks she knows everything, and 
will take advice from nobody. The idea of 
presuming to suppose she can manage a house- 
hold of servants, and entertain visitors, and do 
without a governess for the childi-en, and — and 
everything ! A girl who lias seen nothing and 
been nowhere ! It is preposterous — outrageous. 
Some one ought to insist — to insist — upon her 
having a proper lady companion for herself, 
and a resident governess for Jenny and Louie. 
I have said all I could say ; indeed, I offered 
to take the trouble of looking out a couple my- 
self, and sending them down directly on my re- 
turn — two sisters I thought would be so nice 
and cheerful in a house — and she might have 
had foreigners, for I should not have objected 
to foreigners if Ida fancied them — I would have 
consulted her tastes and done everything to 
please and satisfy her ; but, no, she would not 


162 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


listen to it ! Positively she would not listen to* 
it ! Turned o:ff the subject whenever I began, 
and would not even let me put an advertise- 
ment in the Guardian. I told her the Guar- 
dian was the proper jiaper for young people 
like her and Tom to read ; and explained how 
particular they ought to be to have the right 
kind of paper in a house like theirs ; but all I 
got was that the Times had always been taken 
in at Duckhill, and that they meant to go on 
with it. ‘ Meant ’ to go on ! She would not 
even say they would consider the point. Oh, 
dear, no ! Ida is far too lofty to consider any 
question not started by one of themselves. 
Perhaps if Jenny or Louie had put it to her 
— children though they be, I observe she lis- 
tens to them sometimes — but nothing that I 
could say had the very slightest effect. I 
might as soon try to shake the Tower of London 
as to unsettle one of Ida Barnet’s convictions.” 

“ Ay, you met your match there, my lady.” 

It had added not a little to Lady Sophia’s 
spleen that Sir Eobert beheld in her discomfit- 
ure only an excellent jest. 

Sir Robert would not allow that he had seen 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


163 


any harm in Ida. He had been out of humour 
with Tom ; annoyed with the weather ; and as 
indignant as it was in his nature to be, that 
the guests with whom he was expected to con- 
sort were men who differed from him in poli- 
ties, and with whom he could in consequence 
hold no congenial intercourse on the one sub- 
ject which interested him, besides sport. He 
could not talk for ever about sport, and it was 
disgusting to be boxed up with Thistleblow 
and Jessop, who knew next to nothing of po- 
litical affairs, yet whose votes went the wrong 
way ; while the only other man of his own age 
was Lord Whortlebury, who sat on the oppo- 
site side of the House. 

But in his vituperation against such mis- 
management, Sir Robert did not include Ida ; 
whereas Lady Sophia blamed Ida for her 
brother’s misdeeds as well as for her own. 
Could her ladyship’s lynx eyes have detected 
the smallest approach to levity of demeanour 
in the stately maid who held herself so up- 
right, and did the honours so punctiliously in 
the halls of her fathers, Ida would have seen 
Lady Sophia at her best — or worst. But 


164 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


prudeiy itself could not take umbrage at any- 
thing which went on at Duckhill. 

No prim spinster, no pattern of conjugal 
virtue, could have exhibited more severe and 
rigid propriety, not merely in her own person 
but in all the arrangements which passed 
through her hands, than did the young mistress 
of the house during the trying period referred 
to. 

Several young men had been present. Cap- 
tain Vernon and his brother liked amusing 
girls ; but after one or two attempts they gave 
up trying to be amused by Ida ; while towards 
Mr. Stafford her manner was so precisely the 
same as it might have been towards her own 
great-grandfather had he been present in per- 
son, that even when indignant with Maurice for 
remaining behind. Lady Sophia in her wildest 
dreams had not supposed an inducement could 
have been found in the person of her young 
cousin. 

Blinded by egotism, intolerant of opposition, 
and accustomed to subservience, she would yet 
not be wantonly unjust towards those who op- 
posed or defied her. She would not bridle her 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


1G5 


tongue as to any of Ida Barnet’s enormities, but 
she would not invent enormities for her. 

Wherefore all that passed between Colonel 
Jessop and Lady Sophia when these two met 
and denounced Duckbill and its inmates, as al- 
ready narrated, left Ida’s name untouched ; 
and it was only when fresh revelations had 
newly coloured the retrospect, that the letter 
was penned which reached the frost - bound 
manor on the afternoon in question. 

We left Ida with the letter in her hand. 

From Lady Sophia Clarke,” she murmured. 
“What can Lady Sophia be writing to me 
about? That everlasting governess, or lady 
companion, I suppose ? Perhaps she put the 
advertisement in the Guardian in spite of me ! 
All right, my dear Lady Sophia, do your worst. 
Write, and recommend, and advertise, and 
interview, if you please ; you can’t mahe me 
take your lady, and I can snap my fingers at 
all the rest. Our only lawful guardian died 
with aunt Joanna, and though I am willing to 
hear what good old Bess ” — (these were I fear, 
the very words of the irreverent minx) — 
“ though I am ready to hear what that good old 


16G 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


soul has to say, I am under no need to go by 
her any more than by old Sophia. Now, then, 
let us see what about this lady companion — 
this lady-killer,” absently unfolding the sheet, 
while still gazing abroad over the snowy land- 
scape, where, however, no Maurice was yet to 
be seen. 

But the first words which met the reader’s 
eye caused an instant change of front. 

“Mr. Stafford?” she exclaimed. “What 
in the world can she have to say about Mr. 
Stafford ? ” Glancing liastil}^ over the first line 
or two, she then proceeded to read half aloud, 
“ The Mr. Maurice Stafford, whom I am sorry 
to say Sir Robert and I met at your house, and 
who I hear with real regret is still staying on.” 
“ Still staying on ” in Lady Sophia’s large 
masterful handwriting, brought the sentence to 
the bottom of the page. Ida glanced from the 
window as she turned the sheet. 

“Very much ‘still staying’ on,” she smiled 
to herself. “ I suppose I am to be taken to 
task for this piece of indecorum — this having 
a young man ‘still staying on’ when there is 
neither a lady companion, nor a goveimess to 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


167 


make np the party ! ” Tlien starting to her 
feet as a distant object emerged into view. 
‘‘ Is that him ? It is some one — something — 
some dark creature. Oh, it is only a horse ! — 
how tiresome. Well, to finish Lady Sophia — 
it is very diverting, Lady Sophia’s having 
come in at this precise moment.” (Reads). 
“ You will, I am sure, give me credit for not 
l)eing a person to spread unfounded reports, so 
that when I do most earnestly beseech you, my 
dear Ida, to be upon your guard against that 
most insidious young man, who it appears is 
well known in certain circles, you may- be sure 
I do it most reluctantly, and only from a sense 
of painful duty. I knew some little time ago 
that Mr. Statford was not what he seemed to 
you, to us, and to all at Duckhill, dining our 
pleasant visit there.” (Ida, loquitur^ ‘‘ Pleas- 
ant visit ! ”) “ But I did not know until this 

morning that he had any object in thus masking 
his real character, and deluding not only us, 
but you and Tom — you, Ida, in particular. I 
hear now, I need not say with what concern, 
that he is paying his addresses to you. He is 
a ruined spendthrift, and a gambler to boot. 


168 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


and were I not writing to a young girl, it 
would be easy to add more. Doubtless he 
thinks you will have, if not a fortune, at least 
a competence — whereas he has nothing. This 
I believe to be the simple truth about Mr. 
Maurice Stafford ; and if this warning should 
be in time to prevent your giving him any 
further encouragement, I shall rejoice at having 
been the medium of saving you from a lament- 
able fdte. Your usual prudence and reticence 
of behaviour ” — Give the devil his due ! ” 
thought but did not enunciate Lady Sophia) — 
‘‘ will have, I doubt not, so far have enabled 
you to check over-rapid attentions, so that I 
have every hope I shall be enabled to jirevent 
further mischief. Yours affectionately, 

“Sophia Clauke.” 

This was the letter ; but in the postscript — as 
it hath ever done — lay the sting of the whole. 

“ Of course I do not know whether this is 
anything to you, or not,” proceeded the ready 
pen ; “ but if Tom thinks it worth his while. Sir 
Eobert will inform him of all the pai*ticulars, 
which one lady can hardly write to another.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


1G9 


Until she came to this postscript, Ida’s coun- 
tenance had worn an air of scorn, and she had 
from time to time broken out into little ex- 
clamations and ejaculations with which we 
have not needed to trouble our readers. She 
had scarcely even been impatient of the large 
writing which covered page after page, and 
seemed to magnify the accusation in its course. 

It was almost amusing, coming as it did. 

But this postscript ? For the first time the 
solitary girl started, and the smile fied from 
her lips. 

Sir Robert knew, and Sir Robert would in- 
form her brother! Sir Robert was an honest 
man ; a man not likely to be carried away by a 
canard; a man on whose word she had only 
that day heard her brother observe he would 
rely sooner than on that of most other men. 

Tom had said so, and Maurice Stafford had 
assented; avowing that from all he had seen of 
Sir Robert he had come to the same conclusion. 
He had not met the Clarkes before coming to 
Duckbill, and he had smiled at the remem- 
brance of Lady Sophia ; but he had had several 
long talks with Sir Robert — indeed he had 


170 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


been the only person who had — and had de- 
cided that he was a good sort. 

The phrase rose cruelly before Ida now. Sir 
Kobert was a good sort,” and Sir Eobert 
would give Tom all particulars.” Her colour 
changed ; her lip twitched ; the letter-bag, 
which till now had lain upon her lap, fell with 
a rattle to the floor. 

She again glanced from the window. 

Still no Maurice. He had been trapped by 
a swollen brook which had not been sufficiently 
frozen to admit of his crossing at the usual 
point, thus entailing a round of half a mile. 

But for this cause, he would have been in 
before the post came. 

“ I — I don’t quite understand this,” whis- 
pered poor Ida to herself, turning again to the 
first page of her correspondent’s letter. If it 
had been only Lady Sophia — Lady Sophia was 
nettled because she could not carry off our one 
good guest, whom everybody liked, and who in 
his turn liked only us ; Lady Sophia went off 
angry with Maurice, and angry, especially 
angry with me. I could quite understand her 
saying anything and writing anything to annoy 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


171 


US botli, and — separate us. She saw how 
things were between us sooner than we did 
ourselves, I daresay. I, at least, did not see at 
all, at that time. But it isn’t possible — it isn’t 
possible — that she could be so wicked as to go 
and make up an entire falsehood. Oh, but she 
need not liave done that, she only needed to go 
gossiping about, and get hold of some absurd 
story ! If only she had not said that about 
Sir Kobert! And how am I to tell Tom, and 
how is he to ask Sir Robert ? I can’t tell Tom 
until there is something to tell. And there is 
nothing — as yet — nothing.” Another glance 
from the window. 

Then a long pause. 

What if it should be true?” The words 
burst aloud from Ida’s lips, and at the same 
moment she saw Maurice coming. 

With a sudden impulse she rose from her 
seat, and, trembling in every limb, stumbled 
across the little room, passed through the door, 
and shut it behind her. 

When he entered he found the apartment 
empty. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ WHY DOES IDA HOT COME ? ” 

Was Ida coy, or was she vexed, or was she 
unwell ? Possibly she had merely retreated to 
her own room at the sound of his footsteps, and 
would return within the minute. She might 
not care to seem to be awaiting him. 

He dropped into a chair, then caught sight 
of the letter-bag whose leathern jaws, half 
open, permitted a stream of documents to litter 
the floor by its side. 

“Post in, eh?” said Maurice, rousing him- 
self ; and to pass the moment he crossed the 
room and picked up the bag and its scattered 
contents, looking to see if any of the envelopes 
were addressed to himself as he did so. 

None were, and he replaced the packets in 
the bag. Why did not Ida come ? 

Then he stood in the place where she had 
been standing, and it did not escape him that 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


173 


there were signs of a hasty exit from the spot. 
A cushion had fallen from the easy-chair. The 
table-cover was dragged on one side. Surest 
betrayal of all, the post-bag and its freight had 
obviously been cast down by some one in a 
rapid flight. 

She had been watching from the window, 
had she ? 

He would not have found her doing so, we 
may be very sure ; but the sudden rush of 
emotion which had made a headlong retreat 
Ida’s one thought, had also caused her to neg- 
lect wiping out the traces of it. 

“ She is only gone for a moment,” said Mau- 
rice, to himself. ^ 

The moment, however, lengthened out. 

Can’t I do anything ? Can’t I make a 
noise of some sort to show I’m here ? ” cogi- 
tated he. “ I can’t send for her, of course. I 
can’t even casually ring the bell and inquire, 
but perhaps she would hear if I clattered about 
a bit ; ” and he banged over a footstool and 
shook the fire-irons. There now, that must 
bring her,” the noise being greater than was 
intended. If she does not know I’m here — 


174 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


but confound it all ! she must know, and she 
must know, too, that there is not too much 
time. I really think — but, poor girl, she is so 
awfully shy and strict — I daresay she hates 
coming into the room, now that she is out of it. 
The going out of it was her mistake. That 
was a mistake. I could have dropped in as if 
it were nothing — a mere accident — and she 
could have been sitting here as if she were 
never thinking about me — and we could have 
got over the awkwardness in no time. I wish 
she would come ! ” 

Then he fancied a rustle in the passage with- 
out, and caught his breath, being himself not 
without a shade of nervous excitement. 

No result, however, followed. 

“ Dear me ! There can’t have been any mis- 
take, can there ? ” cried Maurice, flino^ino: him- 
self round. I am sure the child understood 
me plainly enough, and I understood her. 
Jenny’s no fool. She cannot have gone and 
given the wrong message ? This is beastly 
awkward,” — after a pause — the most con- 
foundedly awkward position I was ever in ! 
What is to be done ? I’ll make another diver- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


176 


siou ; ” and this time he went to the door, 
opened it, and set it ajar. Then he coughed 
loudly. He would have given the world to 
call “ Ida,” but he knew Ida would never have 
forgiven him. 

“ It Avould not matter if there were plenty 
of time,” muttered Maurice presently, “ but I 
Avas late as it was, and could only reckon on 
half an hour or so. Twenty minutes of that 
has gone,” taking out his watch. “ If she 
does not come soon — Hark ! there she is ! ” his 
heart again responding by a throb to a move- 
ment which Avas just audible to the ear. 

It Avas not Ida. 

Another ten minutes, and there Avas still no 
Ida. The daylight outside began to Avane. 

“ Good God ! why doesn’t she come ? ” cried 
Maurice at last. He had been kept upon the 
tenter-hooks almost longer than he could en- 
dure. Every moment might close the scene, 
but no moment did ; and Ave appeal to all 
young men Avho have ever found themselves in 
a like situation to say if it be not a truly aAvful 
one. 

And the hapless lover had already made 


176 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


himself conspicuous enough ; that is to say, he 
had already given sufficient signs in several 
quarters of the plunge he was about to take ; 
so that, added to his own disappointment, there 
was a sense of baffling the expectations of 
others, to complete his mortification. What 
was to be done ? 

Supposing he were to be caught where he was, 
alone, and an intruder — or a supposed intruder 
— by persons not in the secret ! Were it Tom, 
or Jenny — then a thought struck him. Jenny 
might again be of service. He would go and 
seek his little messenger, who would probably 
not be far ofE now, for the light was rapidly 
failing, and the skaters had been warned not 
to remain out late on their first day on the ice. 

“ She has got me into this hole, and she 
must get me out of it,” said Maurice, gloomily 
taking up again the cap he had laid down on 
his entrance. There’s a screw loose some- 
where, that’s evident ; but it is just possible I 
may set it straight yet. Ida has misunder- 
stood, I fancy ; gone to her room to take a 
sleep, and perhaps is expecting me after tea. 
It must have been a mistake my fancying she 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


177 


liad been sitting by the window, and bolted at 
sight of me. She often moves quickly. The 
letter-bag was nothing,” and thus seeking to 
soothe and satisfy anxiety, he went oft in search 
of the skaters. 

* * * * ^ 

Let us now return to Tom, trudging along 
towards the village post-office. His purpose in 
going thither, it may be remembered, was to 
carry up the afternoon's mail, which was not 
delivered by the postman, but was fetched 
daily by some one from the manor. 

By going early, the young master would not 
only have an excuse for returning to the house, 
where he considered his presence was required, 
but would save the footman, to whose lot the 
errand usually fell, from being sent out on a 
raw, frosty afternoon, when he would be much 
better at home cleaning his plate. Being a 
young and careful householder, Tom’s mind 
often ran on such details. He would not have 
himself gone out on purpose to spare the foot- 
man, but being out, and being in need of a pre- 
text such as fetching, the letters would afford, 

he could reflect with satisfaction that he would 
12 


178 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


be back at the house early enough to stop 
Thomas from setting forth. 

Some one, however, had been earlier still. 
“We had a chance of sending up this after- 
noon, sir,” explained the buxom village post- 
mistress ; “ our baker’s cart came round about 
ten minutes ago ; and we asked the man if he 
would kindly drop the bag at the manor. It 
will be quite safe, sir. I have known the man 
these many years.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Tom. He felt slightly at a 
loss, as he was apt to do when any little wile 
of his fell through. It had seemed to him to 
be such a neat arrangement altogether, this 
calling for the letters, and taking them up, 
and being found in the library, busy writing, 
if wanted by Maurice ; being able to explain, 
too, that he had expected some important docu- 
ments, one in particular, which would demand 
instant attention. 

And he really did expect such a letter, as 
will presently be seen. 

Of course he could go oif home just the 
same, and it mattered not a pin’s point whether 
or not the letter-bag were there before him ; 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


179 


lie could open it, extract liis epistles, and be 
busy writing in the library presently, as well 
now as if he had himself been the bearer of 
the particular blue envelope expected ; but for 
the moment he looked and he felt an interroga- 
tive “ Oh — h ? ” 

He had sat down with his gun between his 
knees, and was not sorry for the brief rest. A 
morning’s skating and an afternoon’s shooting 
— even though the latter had been cut short — 
had entailed a fair amount of bodily fatigue, 
just sufficient to make a perch comfortable, 
while listening to the prattle of the good wo- 
man behind the counter. 

“ So they’re gone, eh ? ” said he, presently. 
“ They’re early this afternoon.” 

“ Always in by this time, sir.” 

“ Are they? Didn’t know that. We might 
as well have them up a little sooner sometimes, 
then. I should be glad of them sooner. Didn’t 
know they were in before this time usually.” 

We do get them sooner than we used to 
do, sir. Excuse me, that’s the telegraph go- 
ing,” and the speaker turned round. 

“ Eh ? Oh, good-day, then,” said the young 


180 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


squire, rising and jirepariiig to depart. But 
be bad only advanced a few paces from tbe 
door when a sbout recalled bim. Tbe post- 
mistress berself was calling bis name aloud. 

“ It's for you, sir — tbe message. Will you 
come back, sir, and then you can get it at 
once ? I must not stop,” and tbe speaker flew 
back and was attending to tbe despatch by tbe 
time Mr. Barnet bad retraced bis steps. 

“ For me ? ” said be, ratber surprised. Then, 
with a sudden recollection, “ Ob, I daresay 
about Beecb Farm. I am glad that fellow bas 
telegraphed ; it looks as if be were keen.” 

But tbe telegram which was banded bim 
almost immediately was not from a possible 
tenant of Beecb Farm. It was from an un- 
known individual, presumably a nurse, or at- 
tendant, summoning bim to tbe bedside of an 
elderly relative from whom, to put it plainl^q 
be bad expectations. Not for himself ; he was 
already in full possession of all be was ever 
likely to have in this world ; but he had been 
distinctly informed by Mrs. Hilary, who was a 
woman of few words but of spirited action, 
that be “ need not bother bis head about bis 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


181 


sisters if lie wished to many and turn them 
out of Duckbill, for that she would look to it 
that they had a roof over their heads.” 

It was this Mrs. Hilary who was now ill, 
and who had sent for him. 

It was characteristic of the young squire 
that he had never breathed a syllable of the 
above communication in any mortal ear. 

He had brought his sisters back to the old 
place, and had installed them in the rooms 
which had been theirs in childhood. He had 
seen them arranging and projecting, as though 
Duckbill were to be their home for life. And 
he had smiled approval of all they did or 
planned. I doubt if it had once occurred to 
Ida, and certainly it had not to Jenny or Louie, 
that a queen consort, if such were ever to reign 
at the manor, might not see things in the same 
light. That Tom might marry seemed a far- 
off possibility, but that Tom’s wife w^ould not 
adore them or they her, was not to be thought 
of. 

Tom, however, in his solemn, pondering 
young soul, looked ahead. He did not mean 
always to be a bacheloi’, and what if — and this 


182 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


and that contingency would occasionally rise 
to view. 

At such times Mrs. Hilary’s assurance was 
as “ comforting ” as the companionship of Mau- 
rice Stafford ; but with a curious old-fashioned 
delicacy of mind entirely out-of-date among 
modern young people, even in private consulta- 
tions the elder brother neither hinted at the 
prospective legacy nor at the possibility of its 
being needed in the manner suggested by his 
cousin. 

He now stared at the telegram with a blank 
countenance. 

There was no doubt about its urgency ; nor 
about the wisdom of its being acted upon 
promptly. 

“Mrs. Hilary seriously ill. Desii'es to see 
you. Come at once.” Such were the words 
of the message. 

But how was he to go at once ? It was 
already between three and four o’clock, and the 
latest train for York left at four. It was a 
slow, bungling train on a wretched little side 
line, and even by catching it he would not be 
at his journey’s end until a late hour of the 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


183 


night, since York was only the half-way station, 
at which, he had to change for another cross- 
country, jog-trot, happy-go-lucky little loco- 
motive. 

Yet this was his only chance of reaching Pine 
liidge the same day, and to put off till another 
day would hardly do. He knew Mrs. Hilary. 
She was not a woman to send for him until she 
had absolute occasion to do so ; if by delay he 
offended the old lady, very serious consequences 
might ensue. 

Besides which, Tom Barnet, who had another 
mediaeval streak in his nature, felt grateful to 
Mrs. Hilary. He always felt grateful to peo- 
ple who were kind to him and his sisters — more 
especially to his sisters. Attention to them was 
the surest way to win his affections ; and the 
neglect, or more strictly speaking, the cool in- 
difference displayed by the aunt who had had 
charge of Jenny and Louie during the tender 
years of childhood, had roused almost a ]3assion 
of resentment in his breast. 

Of such emotions he could not speak; no one 
ever heard him enumerate the wrongs of the 
past ; but perhaps if even General Thistleblow 


184 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


had known to what was due the ciirtness of 
speech, and the something of defensive in 
Tom’s attitude when announcing the plan of 
his future life, he would not have taken the 
umbrage lie did at his ward’s spirit of inde- 
pendence. 

It now behoved our young man to look afresh 
after the interests of those so dear to him. He 
felt — or thought he felt — a proper amount 
of sorrow that Mrs. Hilary should be dying, 
but perplexity and disturbance of mind over- 
shadowed the sorrow. How on earth could 
he go off on a long, cold journey without so 
much as a handbag? And without having 
anything to eat? And with shabby shoot- 
ing clothes ? Moreover, his boots were sop- 
ping wet. 

And there was also another view of the 
matter to be considered. He had a house- 
ful of people, who had only arrived on the 
previous day : Avhat was to be done with 
them? Worst of all, he had Maurice Staf- 
ford, who was on the brink of a proposal for 
his sister. 

He couldn’t go. . No, by Jove, he could not 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


185 


go — at least not that clay. It must be kept 
dark that the telegram ' had come in time ; 
and if he had only not been fool enough to 
walk round by the post-office it would not 
have been in time ! He could not possibly 
have received it before the latest train had 
left. 

What a nuisance ! What an abominable 
nuisance ! What — “ Oh, dash it all,” groaned 
poor Tom, aloud, “ I have let myself in for it, 
and there’s no use going on at my luck — but 
what am I to do ? ” 

For he realised, more and more that the 
oftener he said he could by no possibility obey 
this summons, the more certain it became that 
he would have to do so. 

He was not in the habit of lying. 

‘‘ Shall we send a reply for you, sir ? ” 

It was the post-mistress who spoke. Then 
Tom became aware that he had been gazing at 
her with open, blind eyes for some time past, 
and that she must have seen that he was in 
search of an inspiration. 

“ A reply, eh ? ” said he, miserably. 

‘Won will want to say 3^011 can’t go to-night. 


186 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


perhaps ? ” suggested Mrs. Bowdler, who nat- 
urally was in the contidence of the telegram. 

“ The only train you could catch ” glancing 

at the clock. 

“ I couldn’t catch it ; I could never get up 
to the manor and down again in time.” 

No, sir, that you could not. You might go 
by an early train to-morrow, sir.” 

Tom was silent. Mrs. Hilary’s voice, face, 
the very clasp of her warm, strong hand on his 
shoulder as she spoke out the blunt words 
which meant so much to Ida, and Jenny, and 
Louie, rushed back upon his memory, and a 
heavy sigh burst from his lips. 

For Ida’s sake chiefly he would have stayed; 
for Ida’s sake he must now go. 

Say I’m coming.” 

“ Beg your pardon, sir ? ” Mrs. Bowdler 
thought she could hardly have heard aright. 

Say — stop, hand me a form.” He leaned 
the gun which till now had been held between 
his knees, against a corner within reach, and 
threw himself over the counter on which the 
post-mistress bustled To place a telegraph form 
and pencil. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


187 


“ Coming. Will be with you to-niglit,” wrote 
Tom. He might, of course, have omitted the 
“ coming,” but he was not a good hand at con- 
densation of this sort. And, besides, what did 
it matter ? 

Now, that he had made up his mind, he be- 
gan to think of other things. The lease of 
Beech Farm, for instance. It was very im- 
portant that a tenant whom he had in view for 
Beech Farm should have an answer by return 
of post, supposing an offer had been made ; and 
that offer was as likely as not in the very let- 
ter-bag of which he had been defrauded.. How 
should he get the letter ? Or get word to Mr. 
Trusty about it ? 

He must also let them know at home where 
he had gone, and why. 

And he must order his things to be sent. 

It ended in his despatching a brief pencil 
note to Ida, which was not without impor- 
tant results as regards our little story ; after 
which the luckless traveller bethought him- 
self of his own personal and pressing require- 
ments. 

He had half an hour at command. Could 


188 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Mrs. Bowdler jj-ive liim something to eat and 
drink in the interval ? Could she lend him an 
overcoat of Bowdler’s ? And a i*ug to cover 
his knees ? 

His pipe and his tobacco pouch were luckily 
in his pocket, but, save for them, he had liter- 
ally no provision for a dreary journey on a bit- 
ter night. 

Mrs. Bowdler, however, rose worthily to the 
occasion. 

“ Come upstairs, sir, this moment,” cried she, 
with the gratification of good-nature and love 
of gossip combined. “ Come right up,” raising 
the shelf of the counter for him to pass through. 
“ Bowdler’s out, but you can have anything you 
like of his ; and let me beg of you, Mr. Tom,” 
droj^ping into friendly phraseology as she 
warmed to the work before her, “do let me 
beg of you to change your socks. Ay, and 
your boots, too, if I can’t get yours dried in 
time, and I doubt I can’t. The boots wdll be 
too big, for Bowdler’s a big man; but any- 
thing’s better than wet feet ; ” pulling out 
warm woollen garments as she spoke, and glanc- 
ing bashfully round. “ You won’t mind my 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


180 


saying it, Mr. Tom, but there’s more than socks 
here ; and anything Bowdler has, you are wel- 
come to. Just make a change — make a change 
— I’ll leave you to yourself — and they’re all 
well aired — I see to the airing of everything, 
for there’s no trusting the girl. And now I’ll 
hurry down and get you some tea, or some 
beer — there’s no time for a chop — but there’s 

cold meat in the house ” descending as she 

spoke, until her friendly voice died away in 
the regions below. 

So contagious is cheerful sympathy and aid, 
that by the time Tom reappeared, clad anew in 
warm, clean garments, he felt almost in spirits 
for the start. 

A fire blazed in the little parlour, and a 
meal, tempting to a hungry man, was spread 
upon the table. 

“ ’Pon my word, this is very nice,” said Tom. 
u really awfully obliged, Mrs. Bowdler. I 
don’t know how I should have got on without 
you,” sitting down and beginning at once upon 
the viands. “ I have about a quarter of an 
hour, haven’t I ? It will only take me a couple 
of minutes to run up from here to the station. 


190 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


But, by the way, there’s another thing : I have 
no money ; I never take my purse out shoot- 
ing ” 

“Will three sovereigns do, sir?’' Triumph 
beaming in her eye, his hostess produced a 
purse. “ I thought about the money wdiile 
Maggie was getting your tea,” she explained, 
“and you’ll excuse my just putting it in my 
own old purse ” 

“ You are really too good,” said Tom, 
warmly. 

Whatever General Thistleblow might think 
of his late ward’s manner, no one at Duckbill 
ever found fault with it. 

“And he shook my hand as grateful and 
thankful as Tiever was,” cried ‘the worthy post- 
mistress afterwards, “ and accepted Bowdler’s 
socks, ay, and his hum-hums” (under her 
breath) “ as pleasant as you please, dear lamb. 
And I do think we set him olf comfortable ! 
Maggie here ran up and took his ticket while 
he was eating in the parlour, and she watched 
for the signal falling, so as to give him to the 
last drop of his time ; and he had Bowdler’s 
rug from off our own bed to lay across his 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


191 


knees — we can easy manage with something 
else till he comes back again — and I’m sure a 
nicer, sweeter, gratefuller young gentleman 
never was, and it’s a downright pleasure to do 
anything to serve him.” 


CHAPTER XIIL 


COREESPONDENCE TAMPERED WITH. 

“ A NOTE from your master ? ” exclaimed 
Miss Barnet in surprise, when, having been 
obliged to admit an imperative maid, she was 
informed why Flowers had presumed to in- 
sist upon the bed-room door’s being unbolted. 

There is nothing wrong, is there ? A note,” 
turning over Tom’s pencil scrap in her hand. 
“There has been no accident her thoughts 
■flying to the guns of the sportsmen. (“ But I 
heard him come in,” reflected the speaker, the 
“ him ” not referring to her brother, as w^e 
know. “ Can he have gone to Tom ? Can 
Tom be sending for me ? ”) colour and spirit 
rising. Such a message would not have suited 
Ida Barnet. 

She had heard Maurice tramp past about 
five minutes before, and had raised her head at 
the sound. When his footsteps quite died 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


193 


away she had sighed. Until then she had not 
known how supporting had been the knowl- 
edge that at least Maurice was there, within 
a few feet of lierself; and that directly she 
could make up her mind to throw to the winds 
Lady Sophia’s insinuations, she could go in, 
and let her lover speak. Now he has gone, and 
with him this chance. 

“ I daresay it is for the best,” murmured the 
poor girl, ruefully, “ but — I did not quite — 
mean him — to go away.” 

When Tom’s note was brought in, however, 
Ida was herself again. She was not going 
to be ordered by Tom. Whatever she might 
do, should be done of herself — not at the 
bidding of Tom. And if Maurice had gone 
to her brother, it was — , a lump rose in 
her throat, and she would not say what it 
was. 

With trembling fingers she undid the fasten- 
ings of the envelope. But the first words 
caused as instantaneous an alteration of de- 
meanour as the opening sentence of Lady 
Sophia’s letter had done before. This time, 

however, interest flagged instead of deepening, 
13 


194 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


on perceiving whose name formed the subject 
of the communication. 

“ Ob, Mrs. Hilary ? ” said Ida, her brow 
clearing ; “ poor Mrs. Hilary dying, and sent 
for Tom ? Stop a moment. Flowers — your 
master — just stop while I read, I may have to 
send you ” — reading — “ There is no time even 
to come back for my portmanteau. Tell Eich- 
ards to pack it for a day or two, and send it by 
early train to-morrow. There is a Sunday 
train about ten o’clock. Oh, Flowers,” said 
her young mistress looking up, “ will you at- 
tend to this? Your master has been called 
away,” and she gave the particulars, and the 
message for Kichards the butler, who also 
acted as Tom’s valet. ‘‘ Oh, and he wants his 
letters, too ; bring the letter-bag — it is in the 
boudoir ” (an involuntary sigh escaped) ; 
‘‘ bring it me now, and I will give you the 
letters.” Then, turning again to the scrawled 
half-sheet of paper in her hand, as the maid de- 
parted on her errand, What is this about 
Beech Farm ? ” she murmured. 

Wet, worried, and hungry, Tom had yet 
contrived to remember Beech Farm when scrib- 


THE ONE GOOD GVEST. 


195 


bling his hasty directions, before ascending the 
spiral staircase to Mrs. Bowdler’s upper cham- 
ber ; and Ida now received instructions to open 
all letters before forwarding any, and extract 
from the rest a missive, should such there be, 
from the prospective tenant. This was to be 
sent over to Mr. Trusty, with news of his de- 
parture, and authority to act as he and his 
master had agreed upon in their last conversa- 
tion on the subject. 

At another time, Ida, who was well up in 
such affairs, would have been busy and impor- 
tant over her part of the business : and even as 
it was, she lost no time in searching for the 
document in question, aware that the farm 
was one of the best on the estate, and that to 
secure a good tenant, in place of a worthless 
fellow whom Tom had been driven to turn out, 
was of the utmost consequence. 

There were three or four letters for Tom, 
all of which might mean anything, or nothing; 
none w^ere addressed by familiar hands, and 
none bore any device upon the envelope. 
Crushing down the dull ache which, in despite 
of other thoughts, ivas still low in her heart. 


196 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Ida began diligently to open letter after letter. 
The first three were of no interest ; a bill for 
oats and hay, another for saddlery, and a request 
to join a countrj^-town club which had lately 
been started. There were now only two more 
to be glanced at. “ This is it,” said Ida jump- 
ing to a conclusion, as she unfolded a blue sheet 
of paper. “A bad hand — and from London — I 
know the man was to be in London — (reading) 
— ‘ Dear Tom,’ — oh ? oh, not the tenant ? — 
(reading) — ‘ Yours very truly, Alfred Jessop.’ 
Colonel Jessop ? ” exclaimed Ida, in surprise, 
Colonel Jessop ? Who next ? One would 
have thought we had had enough already to- 
day without that ‘ little beast of a Jessop ’ 
(quoting Tom) putting in his oar. What does 
he want ? Something disagreeable. I’ll answer 
for it. Disagreeables always come together. 
What is all this palaver about ? ” for Jessop, 
unlike the more direct Lady Sophia, did not 
get to his point till the second page. When, 
however, Ida had skimmed the preliminaries, 
and flashed her eye, as it were, round the cor- 
ner, there was the name again which had al- 
ready sent a knife to her heart. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


197 


For a moment her head seemed to go round. 
She caught her breath, and shut her eyes. 
Should she read on, or not ? 

“ Perhaps I ought not,” murmured the poor 
girl to herself. “ But then I really must. I 
must know ; I am the person who is meant to 
know. If it is to do any good — these people’s 
telling Tom — I must hear what they have to 
say ; and now that Tom is gone, and — and it is 
so much to me ” — with a little sob — “ I must not 
mind, even if he is angry. I have got to know 
wliat this — this talebearer has to tell,” and 
with the wwds she deliberately unfolded the 
sheet, and read every word written on it. 

* <3f * -Jf * 

No, I shall not go down to dinner,” said 
Miss Barnet, two hours afterwards, “ so it is 
no use my dressing. Flowers,” the maid hav- 
ing come to announce that the dressing -gong 
had sounded. “ Will you kindly go to Mrs. 
Lytton, and tell her that Mr. Tom’s being 
called away so suddenly, and — and all, has 
so upset me that — that I am really quite un- 
able to leave my room ? I am very sorry, but 
I can’t,” 


198 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“ Dear me, Miss Ida, not go down at all ? 
And liere’s this beautiful new dress all ready 
for you, and me slaving myself to death ever 
since breakfast to get it finished in time ! Do 
look, now — it’s just lovely. Well, now, would 
you not go down to the drawing-room after 
dinner ? ” perceiving that the charms of -pink 
satin and chiffons only elicited a movement of 
irritation. “ You might just let me come in 
and do your hair, and send you down as soon 
as they get to the sweets in the dining-room. 

You could slip down ” 

“ I tell you. Flowers, I can’t slip down ; I 
can’t, and I won’t. I am not able. I am too 
wretched,” throwing herself over on the 
cushions of the roomy couch which stood by 
the side of her bedroom fire. ‘Wou forget I 
had a bad fall this morning,” continued Ida, 
recollecting the need for keeping up appear- 
ances. “ These things often tell most after- 
wards — oh, don’t bother me,” with a sudden 
accession of fretful impatience ; “ do go away, 
like a good Flowers, and leave me in peace. 
Ob, don’t light the candles,” as the maid, Avith 
the tactlessness of her class, Avas striking a 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


199 


iiiatcli and advancing to tlie toilet table. “ Do 
let the candles alone,” moaned poor Ida, “ my 
head aches so, I can’t have candles or — or any- 
thing. The fire will do well enough.” 

“ Just let me put on a coal or two. Miss Ida. 
The fire will be black out, if you won’t let me 
touch it. I’ll make no noise ; and the room 
does look so dreary ; ” glancing round. “ If 
your aunt should come up ” 

‘‘ She is not to come up. I sent her word 
before that I wanted to be quiet, and she quite 
understood. Stop, though,” as Flowers was 
reluctantly making for the door. “ Stop : if it 
gets round to my aunt that I am too ill to go 
down to dinner, I daresay she may want to 
come and see me — so this is what you must do. 
Flowers. Now listen ; and don’t make a mess 
of it, there’s a good Flowers — wait till they’re 
all in the drawing-room expecting me ; till the 
second gong has sounded, and dinner been an- 
nounced; and then just follow Kichards in, 
and go up to aunt Bess, and say to her that I 
don’t feel up to coming down; that I have 
a dreadful headache, but that it may pass off 
if I am left quiet, and that I particularly hope 


200 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


they will all go in to dinner and not trouble 
about me. Mind it is aunt Bess — Mrs. Lyt- 
ton — you speak to ; and ask her from me to be 
good enough to take the head of the table.” 

“ But what a strange table it wdll be,” mut- 
tered the speaker to herself, the maid having 
departed, “ with neither Tom nor me at it ! If 
only Jenny or Louie had been old enough ! 
Jenny almost might go in, as it is ! She 
would be better than nobody. It would be 
better to have her, than to have a number of 
visitors all sitting down together, without a 
single one of the family present ! Oh, if Tom 
and I had ever dreamed of this ! It is worse 
than the shooting party — far, far worse. At 
least, everything was proper, then, but now it 
seems as if neither of us cared whether it were 
proper or not. Neither we do. I don’t — and 
Tom won’t, when he hears. Those horrid, slan- 
derous, backbiting people, how pleased they 
are to have this to tell ! I know how they 
would look. He like a malicious ape, and she 
like a — camel. She has just the face of an 
odious camel. They say camels can sneer. I 
suppose it is true about Maurice Stafford — — ” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


201 


throwing herself into a fresh attitude. ‘‘ It is 
true, I suppose.” 

A tap at the door. 

“ Bah ! that tiresome woman ! ” ejaculated 
Ida, wild with wrath ; she thought Flowers 
had brought this upon her. But it was not 
aunt Bess who entered ; it was only poor little 
Jenny in a great state of mind. 

Hadn’t Ida gone back to the boudoir ? 
Hadn’t she been out of her room at all ? Not 
at all ? Didn’t she know that Maurice — com- 
ino^ close to the sofa — Maurice wanted to see 
her, and that he was 

“ Not in the boudoir ? ” said Ida, hastily. 

“No; oh, no.” Jenny shook her head with 
great decision. “ Oh, no ; Maurice had said he 
should not go up again till he was sent for ; he 
was dreadfully afraid he had had no business 
to go there before,” the little girl added of her- 
self, “ but now he was in the gun-room, rubbing 
his gun and things, making believe to be busy ; 
only he was not really busy, because he was 
just waiting to see if Ida would send for him.” 

“ Nonsense ! How can I send for him ? ” 
said Ida, sharply. 


202 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Why, by me,” responded lier little sister, 
in all good faith. “You’ll see. If you just go 

in there. I’ll run down to the gun-room ” 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. I never 
heard of such a thing.” 

Jenny’s blue orbs opened ; this was very in- 
comprehensible ; a few hours before and she 
had been entiaisted with a most amicable re- 
sponse to the same request ; and now ? 

“I am feeling too unwell to see any visitors,” 
observed Ida, after a momentary pause. “ That 
is what you must say if anyone asks you about 
me; but unless you are asked, don’t say any- 
thing. Mind, Jenny, don’t say anything unless 
you are asked,” emphatically. “ And don’t go 
back to the gun-room, either. I can’t have this 
message-carrying going on in a house like ours. 
It is not at all the right thing — not at all.” 

“ Why, you allowed me to tell him ” 

“ That was different ; never mind why. You 
are only a little girl, and can’t understand ! ” 
— (Jenny smiled scornfully. She not under- 
stand !) — “ but at any rate, I am not going to 
do it again,” continued Ida, to whom it was 
something of a relief to give vent to all this. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


203 


“ I wonder that Maurice — that Mr. Stafford 
sliould ask it. He — he ought not to — to have 

presumed ” 

“ Oh, Ida ! ” 

‘‘ ‘ Oh, Ida ! ’ What can you, a child, know 
about it? You say ‘Oh, Ida!’ to everything. 
Mr. Stafford has got round you with sweets 
and snow-rides ” 

“ He has not got round me any more than 
everyone else,” indignantly retorted Jenny. 
“ Everyone says the same of Maurice, aunt 

Bess, and the girls, and Hariy and Charlie ” 

“ Pho ! Harry and Charlie ! ” 

“Even that old Lady Sophia, and those 

Vernon creatures ” 

“And even Colonel Jessop, and General 
Thistleblow,” cried Ida, mockingly. “ It only 
needs General Thistleblow to complete the 
present quartette,” scoffed she. “ Lady Sophia, 

and Sir Bobert, and ” 

“ What are you muttering there ? ” demanded 
Jenny, suspiciously. 

But the recumbent figure had tossed ovei*, 
and with her face to the sofa-back, Ida refused 


to answer. 


204 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“Are not you coming down to dinner? ” was 
Jenny’s next. 

“ No.” 

“Aren’t you ? ” 

No answer. 

“ And Tom away, too ! ” 

No answer. 

“ Then who is to go ? ” The little girl drew 
nearer ; in her tone was the vibration of a new 
idea. “ If Tom is away, there will be no one 
to sit at the bottom of the table except uncle 
Jack ; and will aunt Bess have to sit at the 
head?” 

“ Of course.” 

“ It’s dreadful,” said Jenny, suggestively ; 
“ but — Ida ? ” 

“ Well ? ” 

“Wouldn’t it be less dreadful, just a very 
little less, if Louie, and I ” 

“ Not Louie — certainly not Louie.” 

“ Not Louie, then, but me. Oh,” exclaimed 
the now hopeful and exulting little creat- 
ure, “ oh, Ida, I do think, I really do think 
it would be better if I were there. I do, 
indeed, Ida — just me, not Louie,” . throwing 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


205 


the hapless Louie over as though she were 
a Jonah — I should be one of us, you know, 
Ida ; and one of us would be better than 
none of us. And, Ida,” her breath growing 
short as she stood over her sister, and put 
forth the plea with growing earnestness and 
hopes of success, “Ida, you know I have my 
new frock ” 

“ Go and put it on then, and say no more 
about it.” 

“ And go down to the drawing-room ? And 
sit there with all the grand, grown-up people ? 
— And hear the dinner announced, and — ^ — ” 

“Yes, yes — I tell you, yes.” 

“ I must let aunt Bess know that you told 
me to do it.” 

“ Very well. No — sto]3 — don’t ; there is no 
need. Aunt Bess will know soon enough. I 
don’t want her told about me just yet, or she 
will be coming bothering up here. Oh, I know 
she only means it kind, child — there’s no need 
to preach — but I can’t have anyone. Be in the 
drawing-room, and say nothing about it, and no 
one will notice.” 

“ But of course I must tell Louie ? ” 


206 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“Well, tell Louie,” wearily. 

“ Where — where is Louie to be, Ida ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? Where should Louie 
be ? Oh, do go away, I am getting so tired.” 

“ I am going this very moment. It is only 
just this, you see there’s Louie? ” 

No reply. 

“ Louie and I are always together when din- 
ner is going on,” hinted Louie’s partner. “ If I 
am away she’ll be alone to-uight.” 

“Well?” drily. 

“ Couldn’t — couldn’t you let her come in 
here, Ida, just for once? She’d be so lonely 
away in that old schoolroom ; it is such a 
long way off, you know. And Louie would 
be as quiet as a mousey — I’d tell her to be 
quiet.” 

“ Oh, I can’t,” said Ida. Even such a little 
grasshopper as Louie was felt to be a burden 
at the moment. 

“ Very well,” replied her sister, gently. She 
paused for a moment, then moved softly tow- 
ards the door. All her own pleasure seemed 
quenched. 

“ Oil, well, say she can come,” suddenly Ida 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


207 


called out, throwing ofp the sofa blanket which 
Flowers had contrived to drop over her feet 
without its being observed. “Jenny — hi ! — say 
she can come. If she dresses now — with you 
— she may come in and sit here with me, when 
you go down to the drawing-room.” 

“ Poor little thing ! Why should she be un- 
happy because I am ? ” added the speaker to 
hei’self, as the door closed after the joyous 
“ All right ! ” of the retreating Jenny. “ I 
will try not to be selfish,” sighed Ida, a small, 
hot tear trickling down her cheek. 

All the time she entirely forgot to open the 
last letter, which might be from the prospec- 
tive tenant of Beech Farm. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A PINK DRESS SCORNED. 

The last echoes of the dinner-gong had died 
away, and the solemn butler had made his an- 
nouncement and retired. 

“ Where is Ida ? ” exclaimed Mr. Lytton, 
who liked his soup hot, and was accustomed to 
strict punctuality in his own household. He 
had been well pleased with the precision of the 
previous evening, and had formed the conclu- 
sion that his nephew was an admirable host, 
and his niece an attentive hostess ; but now here 
was Tom on the rampage — not Tom’s fault, of 
course, but still, there was no denying the fact 
— and here was Ida on the sick list ! He had 
been informed that Ida would, however, be suf- 
ficiently recovered to present herself at half- 
past seven ; well, why had she not done so ? 

Other people also wondered why. Maud and 
Caroline expected their cousin to aj)pear ra- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


209 


diant in the pink robe which they knew all 
about, and which Flowers had, in her own 
phraseology, been working her fingers to the 
bone to have ready ; and the two deeply inter- 
ested damsels who figured for themselves a 
grand dressing up before the mirror, now pre- 
sumed that a hitch had taken place in the per- 
formance. Every moment they expected to 
behold a dazzling apparition. Ida, arrayed for 
conquest, aches and pains forgotten, would 
burst upon their view in all the. perfection of 
youth, beauty, and happiness. She would star- 
tle every eye, and eclipse every woman present. 

Maud did not mind being eclipsed : but her 
sister did — a little. 

We might as well have brought our otlier 
dinner frocks,” she had observed plaintively, 
earlier in the evening, “ if Ida means to be 
so smart. I am sure what she wore last night 
would have done very well. It was a very 
pretty, good gown — quite good enough for a 
house party like this, where we are all rela- 
tions except Mr. Stafford.” 

‘‘Except Mr. Stafford ! ” echoed Maud, mer- 
rily. “ But that exception reads the riddle. 

14 


210 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Don’t tell me you ^v^oiild not put on all your 
finery if there were a Mr. Caroline in the ques- 
tion. Naturally Ida wishes to look her best 
for her Mr. Ida.” 

“ She looked her very oddest this morning, 
and he admired her none the less.” 

“ That’s different. You can wear what you 
like to go skating, — and besides the cap and 
tie were becoming to Ida, and she knew it. 
But evening dress is evening dress ; and though 
I haven’t seen this pink satin, I suspect it will 
throw us all into the shade. It is pink upon 
pink, Ida says.” 

The “ pink upon pink ” was, however, a long 
time in coining. Maurice Stafford, who sat 
near the door, turning over a book of prints 
with which he appeared to be engrossed, lifted 
his head at every opening of the door, and 
glanced quickly and furtively round; but it 
was always some one else, some insignificant 
member of the circle who, late and breathless, 
hurried in. 

Little Charlie, who was sitting by, looking 
over the prints also, spoke more than once to 
Mr. Stafford, but got no answer. 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


211 


At length came Eichards with a formal sum- 
mons and a figure in the doorway behind him. 
When Maurice saw that this dimly-outlined 
figure was that of Ida’s maid, and that she 
made her way across to Mrs. Lytton with an 
obvious apology on her lips, his heart misgave 
him. 

And yet there was a kind of hope in such an 
apology. It was cruel to hope that any one 
was suffering, but what would be such suffer- 
ing compared with — he bit his lip, and bent 
over the volume in front. Mrs. Lytton was 
explaining aloud the absence of hei* niece. 

To Mrs. Lytton he had next to offer his arm. 
That could be done with alacrity ; she would 
naturally begin about the unfortunate displace- 
ment of the dinner table, and might be led into 
saying more than she knew. He would pump 
her — pump her dry. She should tell him ev- 
ery single thing she knew, or suspected. He 
would force out of her how Ida had looked, 
and what she had said when last seen; and 
drag from the poor lady by main force her 
own opinion on the matter. It did not escape 
him that Mrs. Lytton looked more astonished 


212 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


than commiserative. She did not believe in 
Ida’s illness — neither did he. 

On the opposite side of the table sat little 
Jenny, and it struck Maurice that Jenny looked 
mournfully at him. 

Presently, however, the little girl forgot, and 
made merry with the rest. That dinner table 
ought not to have been a merry one by every 
rule and reason — the two principal entertain- 
ers being absent, the one on a sad errand, the 
other from a sad cause — but honestly, the din- 
ners at Duckbill during the regime of Lady 
Sophia Clarke and General Thistleblow had 
been infinitely more oppressive. People out of 
humour, and habituated to self-indulgence, are 
not to be won from their mood by a well-lit, 
cheerful board, bright with fiowers, sparkling 
with glass, — whereas kindlier and simpler souls, 
however much they may feel they ought to be 
sympathetically pensive under certain condi- 
tions, cannot for their lives subdue their blithe- 
some spirits, nor modulate their accents, when 
gathered together to satisfy healthy appetites, 
and enjoy for weary limbs a well-earned re- 
pose. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


213 


Every one present had been for many hours 
that clay out in the keen, wintry air, and 
brought in that delicious afterglow which ex- 
ercise beneath a frosty sky difPuses through 
the frame. The schoolboys’ cheeks flamed like 
i*ed apples, and at first they were too busy with 
spoon and fork to speak, or look about them. 
Even their elders were not sorry to be per- 
mitted to go through a course or two in peace ; 
but by-and-by all was clatter. 

Harry found his tongue, and Charlie his 
jolly little laugh. The grown-up young lady 
cousins good-humoui*edly drew the little fel- 
lows out, their father made fun of them, the 
others befriended them, their mother left off 
talking to Maurice Stafford, and watched her 
darlings with beaming eyes, while Jenny wrig- 
gled in her chair with delight, and tittered 
more loudly than she would have dared to do 
in any other presence. 

Stafford alone took no part in the general 
hilarity. Mrs. Lytton’s communications were 
lying like a stone in his heart. Under his 
skilful treatment she had indeed owned to 
everything she kneWj but it amounted to noth- 


‘214 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


ing lie did not know before. She had been as 
much surprised as himself at her niece’s non- 
appearance, for at three o’clock she had left 
dear Ida quite recovered, and only needing rest 
and sleep to be her bright, bonnie self again. 
On returning from her sleigh ride, she had 
been informed by Flowers, who was on the 
watch, that her young mistress had retreated 
to her bedroom, but that she was no worse, 
and would be down to dinner. “ I am telling 
you all exactly as it happened,” said Mrs. 
Lytton, with what she considered Machiavel- 
ian diplomacy, “because naturally you and I, 
as the chief offenders of this morning, feel a 
certain responsibility. I am sure I for one, 
whenever I think of myself thundering down, 
that bank ” 

“At my instigation,” said Maurice, with a 
half smile. “ It all comes round to me in the 
long run, Mrs. Lytton. I made you come 
down — then I ran my skate into Miss Bar- 
net’s face. A jolly mess I have made of 
it altogether.” After which it was com- 
paratively easy to be silent, and permit it 
to be supposed that he was rej^enting his 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


215 


misdeeds in the depths of his gloomy con- 
science. He was sharp enough to perceive 
that he might avail himself of this general 
supposition, while other thoughts occupied his 
breast. 

One thing he would do ; he would get speech 
of the solitary person present who knew some- 
thing of the real state of the case, and that 
as soon as might be. When presently the 
silks and muslins rustled past, and the tile 
of departing women was brought up by the 
one short skirt present, while Maurice held 
open the door, he leaned forward, and mur- 
mured, Don’t go to bed till I come, Jen- 
ny.” 

And she had to go to bed ! 

It was really dreadful to Jenny. Maurice’s 
whisper thrilled her through and through with 
a delightful sense of consequence, and she be- 
gan to expect him almost from the moment of 
entering the drawing-room. 

Louie was there, but she must not get en- 
tano^led with Louie. If Louie were to be with 
her, bothering to know how it all looked, and 
wliat a downstairs dinner was like, and liow 


216 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


the boys behaved, just when Maurice came up, 
it would simply spoil everything. 

She would shut up Louie with a few brief 
sentences, at once, and then tell her that it was 
not polite for both of them, the only Barnets 
present, to be talking to each other. 

Accordingly Louie was relegated to sit be- 
tween her aunts and show her new piece of 
needlework, while Jenny herself flitted from 
one to another of the younger people, inter- 
changing a word here and there, paying an at- 
tention, or discharging an errand, but carefully 
abstaining from anything like settled conver- 
sation, and keeping an eye on the door even 
while superintending the struggles of Maud 
and Caroline, who had severally got hold of 
“Pigs in Clover” and “Answers.” At any 
moment “ Pigs in Clover ” could be left behind, 
if Maurice would but appear in the doorway. 

But half-past nine o’clock came, and the 
gentlemen had not yet quitted the dinner table. 
The two elderly uncles liked to sit for some 
time over their wine, and Stafford had forgot- 
ten about children’s early hours. He had not 
missed the little girls on previous evenings — 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


217 


Ida had been all in all. Now he was stolidly 
sipping Tom Barnet’s excellent claret, while 
Fate was thwarting him on the other side of 
the liall. 

Enter the drawing-room, Flowers. “ If you 
please, Miss Jenny and Miss Louie, I am to 
i*emind you it is your bedtime.” 

Jenny’s jaw dropped. Louie rose obedi- 
ently. 

“ What’s that, little girls ? Bedtime, is it ? ” 
cried the cheerful voice of aunt Bess from across 
the hearthi-ug. “ How is Miss Ida, Flowers ? ” 
Somehow it was always “ Miss Ida ” in the 
household. 

“ She has got into bed, ma’am, thinking she 
would be better there. She sent me down just 
now to remind the young ladies it was half- 
past nine o’clock.” 

The young ladies in question glanced at their 
aunt. If she would only say we might stay,” 
thought Jenny. Ida had strict ideas, but still 
they might be made to give way. 

“Do you think Miss Ida really wanted us to 
go. Flowers?” enquired the little girl, wist- 
fully, Flowers having turned to depart, “ or did 


‘218 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


she only think it was oiir usual bedtime ? You 
see, this isn’t like a usual evening.” 

“ And the boys being here, perhaps another 
half-hour might be granted,” chimed in Mrs. 
Lytton, perceiving the blank disappointment of 
Harry and Charlie, who were in the act of pro- 
posing a round game. Suppose Flowers were 
to go and ask.” 

“ Oh, do, Flowers ; do go and ask ” 

“ You will, won’t you? ” cried little Charlie, 
running up to the maid and catching her hand, 
“ I say, do look sharp ; we’ll have to go our- 
selves in half an houi*, you knoAV.” 

“ Yes, please look sharp,” added his brother. 
‘‘We shall be awfully obliged, you knoAv.” 

What abigail Avould not have found the situ- 
ation flattering? Mi*s. Lytton requesting, the 
little ladies beseeching, the boys entreating — 
AAdiat could the amiable FloAA^ers do but yield ? 
Back she came, hoAA^ever, looking a little less 
airy than she AA^ent. 

“ I am sorry, ma’am,” addressing Mrs. Lyt- 
ton Avith a someAAdiat frightened face, “but 
Miss Ida won’t hear of it. She seemed almost 
vexed. Better come at once, young ladies. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


219 


Miss Ida wants you to go in to her to say 
‘ good-night.’ She seemed disappointed you 
wa.s not with me before.” 

“ Oh — of course — very well — you had better 
go, my dears, at once ; ” even aunt Bess struck 
her colours on the instant. “ Ida is so right 
and wise about you ” — kissing them both fondly 
— “she thinks a rule ought to be kept. We 
must begin earlier to-morrow night — no, on 
Monday night — that is all. If we had thought 
aliout a game sooner we could have easily 
started one long ago, and got it in before bed- 
time.” 

“We can come. Flowers ; we don’t need to 
be waited for : ” in the midst of her rueful 
“good-nights” Jenny was still listening for 
Maurice Stafford’s step. “We’ll come this mo- 
ment,” she continued, impatiently, and jerked 
down a candlestick as she spoke. 

The candlestick had to be set up again — 
that took time — but still Maurice did not ap- 
pear ; and he was not even in the passage out- 
side — a last hope. The door of the dining- 
room was shut. 

“You are late,” was Ida’s greeting, as the 


220 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


two shamefacedly made their appearance, and 
you know you should not have asked to sit up. 
It was too bad to make me seem a sort of 
ogress ” 

“ It wasn’t we who began it. It was aunt 
Bess, and the boys — ^they set us on to ask.” 

“You ought to have told them you never 
sat up for anyone.” 

“ But, Ida, we have, you know — lately — 
now and then.” 

They had ; Stafford had asked for them. I 
don’t think Jenny would now have recalled 
this to her sister— instinct would have held 
her back — but Louie knew nothing. 

“That’s it — that is just it,” exclaimed Ida, 
sitting up in bed the better to take command 
of the mutineers, “ you do a thing once, or, per- 
haps, twice, and expect to do it always ! One 
cannot give in to a single indulgence without 
your encroaching. There was Jenny — I al- 
lowed her to sit up to late dinner, and have 
a place, and everything — and yet she has never 
been near me since ! I thought, of course, she 
would have been up the instant dinner was 
over.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


221 


And Jenny had been about Ida’s own busi- 
ness ! 

“ I thought I — I had better not leave the 
drawing-room,” faltered she. 

“You mean you wished to stay there,’' re- 
torted her sister, in withering accents. “You 
had better speak the truth.” 

The brave little girl held her tongue. 

“ It was not very kind,” said poor Ida, bit- 
terly, “ to forget all about me lying alone here, 
and be enjoying yourselves laughing, and talk- 
ing, and playing games downstairs.” 

Still Jenny was silent. It was true that she 
had been laughing and talking and wanting to 
play games — even if unable to accomplish this 
last feat — but it Avas not true that she had for- 
gotten the interests of one so dear. And some- 
how she AA^as learning not to blurt out Maurice 
Stafford’s name either. Something was Avrong 
between Maurice and Ida, hopelessly, lamenta- 
bly Avrong, and it behoved her to tread with 
wary feet betwixt the tAVo. 

“ What are they all doing noAV ? ” next de- 
manded the inquisitoj*, from her pillows ; hav- 
ing had her say, and subjugated the delin- 


222 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


quents thoroiiglily, sLe now resumed a more 
ordinary tone. “ I suppose they are all having 
a good time ? ” And something of the resent- 
ment the thought inspired breathed in the 
question. 

“ Splendid,” responded Louie, perceiving 
that the worst was over, and scrambling up 
on the bed as she spoke, those boys are sucli 
fun ” 

“ Jenny, can’t yon speak ? What are they 
doing ? Who is speaking to who ? Ho^v are 
they sitting ? ” 

‘‘ The gentlemen have not come in from the 
dining-room yet,” replied Jenny, in funereal ac- 
cents. 

“ Oh,” said Ida — and asked no more. 

The next morning, Sunday morning, dawned ; 
and long ere the daylight was fully established, 
the rattle of hail and the howl of sweeping 
winds betrayed what manner of day was in 
store for the occupants of Duckbill Manor. 
They were back to their old weather again. 

“Beastly, isn’t it?” said Maurice Stafford, 
cheerfully, as the party assembled at break- 
fast, and one and another returned from a 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


223 


gloomy survey of the outer scene. Even the 
snow-plough road has been sno wed-up afresh, 
Jenny. We shan’t get out to-day, that’s cer- 
tain.” 

He was, however, equally certain that he 
should get somewhere else that day, and with 
renewed hope came renewed cheerfulness. A 
night’s rest had shrunk all the ill omens 
of the previous evening into trifles not worth 
consideration, and he had made up his mind 
to disregard them, and forget their exist- 
ence. 

“ Beastly weather, sir,” said he, addressing 
Mr. Lytton in the pleasant tones which Jes- 
sop and Thistleblow had found so irresistible. 
^‘No doubt the same all over the country. 
This will do for our ice, I expect, boys.” 

“ Do for our ice ? ” echoed the little fellows, 
who had not thought of that. ‘‘ Do for our 
ice ? Do you mean we shan’t have any more 
skating ? ” in accents that might fitly have 
queried regarding the end of all things. 

Why, look for yourselves,” said Maurice. 

Hark to that ! ” as a blast swept by, and 
flung its rattling hail like sharp-edged teeth 


224 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


against the windows. What does that mean, 
eh ? ” 

“ I doubt we shall have a storm,” subjoined 
the boys’ father. I thought so last night. 

There was a haze about the moon ” and 

the discussion wandered oft among the ele- 
ments. 

Jenny, however, wondered at Maurice. He 
seemed quite in good spirits. She had looked 
in on Ida, on her way downstairs, and Ida was 
in bed, and scarcely spoke. In response to in- 
terrogation she had avowed her intention of re- 
maining where she was. Obviously she was 
still in yesterday’s vein, if Maurice were not. 
Neither Jenny nor Louie knew what to say 
about Ida. 

However, breakfast passed and the pai'ty 
broke up. Nobody could go to church, that 
was certain ; and, whatever other people 
thought about it, this was an experience both 
novel and exciting to Harry and Charlie. A 
whole Sunday of story-books and liberty ! By 
the end of the day they were heartily tired of 
both, but during the early part of the forenoon 
the prospect was alluring. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


225 


So it was to Stafford, who felt he should 
now be able to choose his own methods of pro- 
cedure. He did not wish to resort to strong 
measures, if ordinary ones came to hand. An 
invalid naturally would not rise in the early 
morning; he would wait till she had risen, 
eaten her luncheon, and established herself in 
the little boudoir. 

Crossing the hall he met Mr. Trusty, the 
farm bailiff. 

“ Oh, Mr. Stafford, sir, it’s you ? I was hop. 
ing it was you. Perhaps you can advise me. 
I’m in such a confusion with Mr. Tom’s being 
called away, and no letter from that Hodgson 
we had in view for the farm ” 

“ For Beech Farm ? Mr. Barnet told me 
about it. Hasn’t the man written ? That’s 
odd. You were to have heard yesterday.” 

“We were, sir; and I made sure Mr. Tom 
had heard. I was expecting some one to be 
over every minute last night. Then I heard 
about Mr. Tom’s going off ; but it seems there’s 
nothing been said about a letter.” 

“ There may have been a letter for all that. 

The bag came in after he left. I saw it my- 
15 


226 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


self, with a heap of letters for your master in 
it.” 

“ That’s true, sir ; but I’ve sent up, and Miss 
Ida says there’s nothing, and she was to open 
all the letters. It will be a pity if we lose 
that man ; he is the very tenant we want ; 

I have a great mind ” and the speaker 

paused. 

“To go up to London straight away? I 
should,” said Maurice. “ If you trust to posts, 
they play you tricks at the best of times, and 
now, there’s no saying what they may not be 
up to. Go to London to-day ” 

“To-day, sir? no, sir; not on the Sabbath 
day. I’m a religious man, Mr. Stafford ; I 
never do business on the Sabbath.” 

“ Oh, ah, yes ; I had forgotten it was Sun- 
day, that’s the fact,” replied Maurice. “ But 
the case being urgent, if you went by to night’s 
train — there is one about nine o’clock, isn’t 
there? The day wdll be over by then, you 
know.” 

The bailiff eyed him dubiously. There vras 
such a train, and he knew it. He knew, more- 
over, the importance of action and the neces- 


THE ONE GOOD GEEST. 


227 


sity for promptitude. On the other hand a 
freezing journey by night? Mr. Trusty shook 
his head. “ I’ll wait till to-morrow,” he said, 
turning away. “ May be there’ll be a letter 
to-morrow; or I’ll hear from Mr. Tom — or 
somethino:. If Hodgson is to be our tenant 
he’ll not be put otf for want of an answer on 
the instant. If it’s to be — it’s to be. Good 
morning, Mr. Staiford.” 

“ Good morning, old fool.” 

People sometimes presumed on Trusty’s deaf- 


ness. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE SOLITAEY LEGATEE. 

Meantime Tom Barnet, whom Pate had thus 
isolated from the rest of the party, found him- 
self in a position which was not without its 
pleasant side. He had surmounted the miseries 
of the journey, arrived at Mrs. Hilaiy’s resi- 
dence, found that he was in time not only to 
see his elderly cousin alive, but to a certain ex- 
tent in possession of her faculties, and, after an 
excellent night’s rest, had risen sound in wind 
and limb, to which there was added a delight- 
ful consciousness of having done his duty in 
the teeth of adverse circumstances. 

There was no one but himself at Pine Ridge. 
He was glad of that. All the way thither he 
had been cogitating as to whom he should find 
there, and in what light he might expect to be 
looked upon, supposing some Hilary relations 
— there might be Hilary relations, although he 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


229 


had never heard of them — wei*e on the spot, 
in response to a summons like his own? Once 
or twice he had told himself very plainly that 
it was a deuced awkward position he was 
])laced in, and a monstrous disagreeable thing 
which had been laid upon him to do. Of 
course Mrs. Hilary had a j^erfect right to do 
it ; and if she chose to impose any other unwel- 
come ordeal upon him he must submit, — but 
he had hardly been able to forgive himself for 
cutting short his shooting and making that 
luckless detour by the village. 

If it had not been for that unfortunate freak 
of wisdom, the good old lady might have 
peacefully passed away before he could possi- 
bly have reached her, and all who can enter 
into a bashful young Englishman’s reluctance 
to face a formidable scene will make allow- 
ances for Tom. He did hate the thought of 
driving up to Mrs. Hilary’s house in a station 
fly, with perhaps another fly on in front — or 
behind — containing another expectant legatee, 
and of being received by intelligent servants, 
perfectly aware of what these arrivals meant. 
Would he and the other legatee have to intro- 


230 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


duce themselves to each other, and eat, diink, 
and smoke together afterwards? Would they 
be alone, or would there be a phalanx of leg- 
atees already in possession ? What, again, 
would they think of his droll appearance ? He 
could explain, of course : but would not the 
very explanation raise secret surmises ? It 
would look as if he had indeed been in a vio- 
lent hurry to come. Added to which Bowd- 
ler’s coat and Bowdler’s breeches were hardly 
becoming. 

And he grew tired, and hungry, and stiff as 
the night wore on ; the night had begun for 
him so very soon. In the morning, it must be 
remembered, he had had his first skate of the 
season, and he had skated indefatigably. Then 
there had been the trudge over rough, frosted 
ground, hard as iron, together with the weight 
of a heavy gun to carry. He would have been 
pleasurably fatigued even if he had been at 
home, while as it was, between the hurry-skurry 
of departure and the succeeding irksome hours 
of blankness, he was at a low ebb altogether 
when he stepped out on the little platform of 
the station for Pine Ridge. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


231 


The first sense of relief was obtained by per- 
ceiving himself to be the only passenger, at 
least the only one of his own kind. That was 
something, even supposing there was a phalanx 
already gathered in the house ; they were not 
flocking thither in company with him. When 
it appeared that there was no phalanx as well 
as no second station fly, the relief was so great 
that Tom was almost happy. 

No one had been telegraphed for but him- 
self ; the glowing Are, the tempting supper 
table, the attention, and respect, and commiser- 
ation were for himself alone ; he had no need 
to mind about his clothes and his absence of 
luggage ; to Mrs. Hilary’s gentle old manser- 
vant lie could make his explanations with ease ; 
and the tender solicitation of the old man for 
his comfort, and the excellence of the food and 
wine, sent little thrills of comfort all througli 
his weary frame. 

He did not even want to smoke, he only 
wanted to go to bed when assured that he was 
not expected in the sick chamber. Mrs. Hilary 
was aware he had come, and the nurse fancied 
her gratified by the intelligence, but at night 


232 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


her mind was apt to grow confused, and an ex- 
citing interview was not to be thought of. 

She’ll only just know you, sir; and really for 
all her senses can follow in what she says, it 
was hardly worth sending,” commented the 
oracle when delivering her dictum on the sub- 
ject ; “but as I distinctly understood her to re- 
peat your name and to add ‘ Send for him ’ over 
and over again, I sent. We always do send 
when patients are like that. But I’m sorry 
you had such a dreadful night to travel on, sir.” 
Even she was sorry ! Tom, who loved sympa- 
thy, grew himself quite light-hearted over his 
hardships. 

“ Oh, it’s nothing — nothing at all,” he said. 
“ I was lucky — that is, I — I just got the tele- 
gram in time to catch the train. Of course it 
was all right to send for me.” 

For the life of him he could not help feeling 
even more relieved than before. Until now he 
hardly knew how much he had dreaded the 
thought of having to sit up by Mrs. Hilary’s 
bed, holding her hand, and hearing how she 
had made her will. What should he say about 
it ? He had thanked her befoi*e, and he thanked 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


233 


her now again in his heart — but he did not 
want explanations. 

To be told that she would only just know 
him, and that his being sent for was merely to 
satisfy an instinctive craving, might have made 
a young man who had undergone something 
and given up something at duty’s call, impa- 
tient — but it soothed Tom Barnet’s shrinking 
soul in a wonderful manner. He went off to 
bed quite cheerfully. 

And then he found himself in a room which 
was comfort personified, with every little ar- 
rangement strictly attended to, and the fire- 
light dancing over all ; and as he mounted the 
huge bedside and sank beneath the coverlit 
which wrapped him round, and felt the warmed 
sheets beneath, and laid his cheek upon a fine 
old linen pillow, he had scarcely a moment to 
realise how inexpressibly grateful to every 
sense it all was, before his eyelids closed in a 
long, dreamless sleep. 

The next moiming dawned not, as at Duck- 
hill, in storm and hail, but bright with sun- 
shine ; and the first outlook over a peaceful 
snow-veiled landscape was further re-assuring. 


234 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


The sun was high in the heavens, it was be- 
tween ten and eleven o’clock when Tom awoke, 
and it was the chnrch bells chiming across the 
snow which awakened him. A country church 
with a fine peal of bells was within a couple of 
miles, and in the frosty atmosphere their music 
sounded loud and sweet to the ear. 

Tom, however, started up, as though caught 
tripping. By Jove, that’s the church bells,” 
cried he, as soon as his head cleared. “ How I 
must have slept ! But after all, it was midnight 
before I got to bed and I was most uncommonly 
tired. Well, there’s no hurry, I suppose,” 
mused he, comfortably settling down again ; 
“ there’s nobody waiting for me, and I may 
breakfast when I choose.” 

It was nearly noon when he did choose. 
The little old serving man begged him not to 
rise till he felt so inclined ; was sure he must 
have been in need of a good rest ; and had no 
news to give of his mistress. She was much 
the same, half awake, half asleep. The nurse 
thought it best to wait till she mentioned Mr. 
Barnet’s name again, when she would suggest 
his going up to the bedroom. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


285 


‘‘ All right,” said Tom, drowsily. Then he 
napped on for about half an hour, and woke 
more fully because the sun had crept on to his 
face and persistently remained there. After 
this he got up. 

Whether he knew it or not, it was a cheery 
breakfast he made in the poor old lady’s house, 
lie did not feel lonely — far from it. Old 
Cnthbert was in and out all the time with his 
gentle cough and apt ministrations. The coffee 
was delicious, the home-made bread better than 
any bread they made at Duckbill — (he took a 
mental note of this with a view to reform) — 
and the honey in the comb a worthy finish to 
broiled fish and devilled kidneys. As he sat 
there peacefully eating and drinking and play- 
ing with the cat, Mrs. Hilary’s favourite cat, 
at intervals, Avhile the whole square, old-fash- 
ioned dining parlour was flooded with broad 
sunlight, Tom Barnet had not a care in the 
wolld. His eyes roved round the well-covered 
walls, rested on the tall screen, the rows of 
leather-backed chairs, the antique sideboard, 
and massively set out table. “ I suppose they 
would get the china too,” he murmured. 


236 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


The future of his three sisters began to take 
shape in his mind. 

If Ida and I are both settled by the spring,” 
thought he — (how amazed Ida would have 
been had she heard!) — “the little ones could 
either be with her or with me. Margaret is 
such a dear girl that it might answer for them 
to stay on at Duckbill, but I expect they would 
rather be with Ida. It is luck for Ida. The 
very place for her and Maurice. A nice small 
estate, in good working order ; a good house, 
and needing nothing — that is, if she gets it as 
it stands. But, of course, one ought not to 
build upon this,” shaking his head wisely ; 
“ we have no right to draw conclusions, because, 
of course, nothing exact was stated. Still, she 

would hardly have sent for me ” and he 

looked complacently round. 

Now, who was this Margaret, thus familiarly 
quoted ? Tom seemed to know all about her ; 
why has she never before appeared in these 
pages, nor been referred to by our speakers ? 
Simply because, as yet, the most of them 
knew nothing about Margaret. They knew 
there was such a person — they had no idea 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


237 


that such a person knew a great deal about 
them. 

“ Don’t you see what a cruel thing it would 
be to break it all up just when the whole ar- 
rangement is beginning to work so nicely ? ” 
said Margaret to a lover who had been impet- 
uous for the first time in his life. “If you 
had not happened to fall in love with me, you 
would have been quite ha|)py at home with 
those dear sisters of yours ; and you know how 
they have talked about their new, old home, 
and how they have been hungering and thirst- 
ing to get back to it ! Tom, let them have this 
one year in peace. I am young too, and my 
dear parents dislike the idea of my being 
married before I am twenty. Wait till I am 
twenty — it won’t be long — and see if nothing 
happens first. Ida is older than I, and. ever 
so much prettier. She may have a home of 
her own to go to ” 

“ Or Pine Ridge,” Tom had thought. 

But he had not communicated Mrs. Hilary’s 
intentions to his sweetheart, for the same reason 
that he had held his tongue about them to the 
rest. " He knew his spirited trio at home ; they 


238 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


would never be driven, and Mrs. Hilary might; 
seek to drive them. Thence would have ensued 
altercations and misery. As Margaret bade 
him, he would bide his time. But it may as 
well be owned, without shame to human nat- 
ure, that Maurice Stafford would never have 
received his prolonged invitation, if there had 
not been something in the mind of his host 
which neither he nor any of the others present 
suspected. 

Now the fates seemed working for Tom. 
He foresaw for Ida not only a husband, but 
a home — an extra home that was — supposing 
Stafford had none in particular to offer. With 
Ida happily wedded, and himself happily — oh, 
how happily wedded too — Jenny and Louie 
could not fail to be provided for. He would 
take care they did not fall between two stools. 
Martinet as he was, and as Ida was, no one else 
should tyrannise over the poor little things ; 
while as for Margaret — his eyes grew soft only 
to think of Margaret. 

He took out her last letter from his breast 
pocket. It had arrived on the morning of the 
day l)efore. Kegularly every Saturday morn- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


239 


ing there made its appearance at Duckliill 
Manor the small, square envelope which meant 
so much to one inmate of the house, and which 
had hitherto escaped the notice of the rest ; 
and not without a swift recollection that no 
more of the kind were due for another week 
had Tom placed his correspondence in Ida’s 
hands on his departure. 

He now absorbed anew the contents of Mar- 
garet’s latest sheet. 

The door opened. 

‘‘Well, Cuthbert?” said Tom, expectantly. 

The old man shook his head. The muscles 
of his face were working feebly. 

“ Any change ? Anything — ah — wrong ? ” 
cried Tom. 

“ All is wrong, sir; that is, all is over,” and 
holding on by a chair with an endeavour to 
control his agitation, the old butler proceeded. 
“She’s gone, sir. The nurse has just come out 
to say so. Passed away a few minutes ago. 
And no one with her — that is, not you, sir, nor 
me: If we had been called ” 

— “ Oh, well, you see, there was no time to 
call us.” Although startled and impressed, the 


240 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


young man naturally felt less emotion than the 
old retainer. “ I am sure the nurse would have 
come if she could,” he went on. I presume 
she had no idea the end was so near. There is 
the doctor’s gig,” catching sight of it from the 
window with a sense of relief. “ I’ll go and 
meet him, Cuthbert,” putting a hand on the 
bent shoulder as he passed. “This has come 
upon you very suddenly ; go and get — com- 
posed,” continued Tom, trying to say the right 
thing. “I’ll answer the door bell,” and ho 
vanished. 

Everyone now turned to Tom for '’advice, 
direction, and approbation. By common con- 
sent he found himself looked upon as the new 
master, and his time was much more fully oc- 
cupied than it would have been had the old 
lady lived longer. So busy, indeed, did he find 
himself, and so obvious was it that his presence 
was as necessary as it was decorous and, so to 
speak, dutiful, that he ever afterwards looked 
back upon the days spent at Pine Kidge in that 
snowy, sunny seclusion, which was yet so full of 
occupation, so pregnant with results, with a keen 
perception of its having been a pleasant season- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


‘241 


Then he had no ill news from home to take 
off the edge. Nothing had been written to him 
about Beech Farm, nor about Maurice Stafford. 
He supposed all was right in both instances. 

As regarded Beech Farm it was so — no 
thanks to Ida, nor yet to Trusty — but Maurice 
Stafford had left Duckbill some days before its 
master returned thither. 

16 


CHAPTER XVL 


A HOME-COMING MARRED. 

Gone ! ” exclaimed Tom Barnet on his ar- 
rival back at his own home the following Sat- 
urday night. Maurice Stafford gone ! How ? 

When ? Why was I not told ? Why 

but here the speaker paused. 

He had stayed till Saturday at Pine Ridge, 
there being so much to do and attend to. 
Everything had been left to his sisters ; with 
the exception of a few legacies, just and liberal, 
which Tom had announced with much decorous 
satisfactioil ; and he had had the pleasure of 
hearing in return that it had for long been 
understood in the household that the propei'ty 
would pass intact to the Barnet family ; and 
that although Mrs. Hilary had relations on the 
other side, they were wealthy and independent 
people, to whom all she could give or leave 
was a matter of little consequence. Some of 


THE ONE 0001) GUEST. 


243 


these cousins attended the funeral, made them- 
selves pleasant, and promised to shoot the 
Duckhill woods the following autumn. 

Contrary to custom, moreover, the old lady's 
affairs proved to be in perfect order. She had 
lived well within her income, kept her own ac- 
counts, and been lucky in her investments. 
Tom's respect for the sex was hugely increased 
after going through the papers which his posi- 
tion as executor necessitated his investigating. 

Whilst engaged thus congenially, even his 
own interests and those of Duckhill generally 
sank into the background ; and though he 
opened every sheet with a certain amount of 
expectation — especially when the address was 
in the handwriting of his sister Ida — he did not 
detect anything amiss in the absence of Mau- 
rice Stafford’s name. 

If Maurice had not come forward as an 
avowed suitor, it only meant that he had 
judged it better to wait for the return of the 
elder brother and natural guardian, but if on 
the other hand Maurice had spoken — (“ And 
somehow I think he must have spoken,” med- 
itated the absentee over his leisurely evening 


244 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


pipe, there being still no news, though several 
(lays had passed,) — the two might choose to 
keep their secret to themselves, till such time 
as they could confide it face to face. 

It was like Ida not to care to write about 
such things. Ida was shy where feelings were 
concerned — as he was himself. How Ida 
would start when she heard about Margaret ! 
Ida who knew him so well and yet knew him 
not at all, as Margaret did ! Was it now Ida’s 
turn to experience something of that wonder- 
ful overfiow of soft emotions and tender, sacred 
aspirations, which made him in the presence of 
his betrothed another creature from the pro- 
saic Tom Barnet of every-day life? He won- 
dered. 

Of course Maurice Stafford was a good fel- 
low, an awfully good fellow; and Ida was a 
dear good girl, and a girl to admire too ; but 
still — he shook his head. No young lover ever 
thinks that another can know anything of his 
own heaven. 

Nothing, however, Tom considered, could be 
more apropos than Maurice Stafford’s being 
actually at Duckhill and in love with his sis- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


245 


ter, when that sister was being put in posses- 
sion of a home and fortune. Maurice would be 
clear of all suspicion of fortune-hunting, since 
both the old lady’s illness and death had been 
totally unforeseen, and since no one, save Tom 
himself, had any notion to what extent the 
Barnet girls would beneht thereby. 

If on his return to the Manor it should be 
found that the first action required of him was 
to give his brotherly consent to an engage- 
ment already half formed, well and good. He 
would rather prefer that it should be so. • But 
if the set words had not so far been actually 
spoken, he would wait till they had — it would 
not be long — before making his important an- 
nouncement on the other hand. 

When he thought of his announcement, he 
chuckled. If Miss Barnet had been reticent, 
so had he. He had heard from all three sisters, 
and no one of them had named the name of 
Maurice — (a prohibition had been issued on 
the subject, we may guess by whom) — where- 
fore they could not complain if he had also 
written briefly and vaguely, suppressing the 
gist of his communications. 


246 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


At first, indeed, he had dashed off a line or 
two, in which he had conveyed the news ; but 
on second thoughts the sheet had been de- 
stroyed ; and subsequently he had merely la- 
mented the delay occasioned by business, with- 
out saying whose business. It would be easier 
in every way to tell than to write. 

There was so much to tell, seeing that one 
tale opened the way for another. He might at 
last even venture upon his own autobiograj)h- 
ical narration — indeed, he would almost have 
to do so in order to re-assure the affectionate 
hearts of the three most concerned. They 
would think it impossible to desert him : cruel 
to leave Duckhill for Pine Ridge. 

In fancy he heard little Louie’s outcry, and 
saw the tears in Jenny’s eyes. Poor, dear, 
little tender-hearted things, perhaps they 
would not even care to go when they heard the 
whole truth ; and it might be difficult to make 
them easy in their minds, albeit there was a 
Margaret in the question. Ah, but not when 
they came to know his Margaret ! 

He selected the words in which he should 
first present his Margaret to them in the light 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


247 


of a sister, and make known her own entreaty 
on their behalf. Let them have this one win- 
ter in peace.” 

“ It is Ida herself who has broken the peace,” 
he heard himself saying. “ I give you my 
word, if Ida had stood firm, so would I, till a 
year had passed. Pine Pidge should not have 
separated us. But now the whole compact is 
at an end. After all, you know,” this was for 
the two younger ones, after all, it only 
amounts to this, you have two homes instead of 
one. (For I sujDpose Maurice would make no 
objection,” murmured the young man, to him- 
self, in conclusion.) 

It had been a great point in Maurice’s 
favour, that he was not the sort of man to 
make objection. ‘‘Anyway, they can’t go 
wrong between us,” thought Tom, cheerfully, 
“ and there’s no hurry, as Margaret won’t hear 
of anything being said until the spring. The 
spring? That’s April. That would be just 
right. I can make Maurice hang out for April 
too.” And thus peacefully smoking and rumi- 
nating, he found the quiet evenings pass as 
quickly as the busy mornings. 


248 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Conceive tlierefore thfe sensations of tlie 
young squire when he looked round in vain for 
the figure which should have been prominent 
in the group assembled to welcome him on his 
return. 

There were his aunts, his uncles, and his 
cousins of both sexes ; there were his sisters 
three — Ida with a slight scar on her left cheek, 
but in other respects none the worse for the 
accident which, be it noted, had taken place the 
day brother left — but there was no Maurice 
Stafford. 

The hour was late ; it was pitch dark out- 
side; Stafford must be in the house if he were 
anywhere ; and if in the house why was he not 
either in the hall or drawing-room ? 

“ Awfully glad you’re all here,” said Tom, 
beaming round. “ It was most awfully unfor- 
tunate, wasn't it ? But as you can stop for 
Christmas it’s all riglit. Awfully glad you can 
stop, aunt Bess. Where’s Stafford ? ” He 
thought he put the question easily, but Ida 
perceived the dawning of surprise. 

“Oh, Maurice is gone,” replied Jenny, try- 
ing not to glance at her sister — Ida was giving 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


249 


particular orders about the cold roast pheasant 
for the traveller’s supper, at the moment. 

“ Yes, Maurice is gone,” echoed little Louie, 
with a sigh. “We were so sorry — all of us — 
but he would go. Ida said we weren’t to tell 

you ” 

“There was no need to trouble you about 
every trifle,” Ida’s ringing voice interrupted 
the plaintive tones. “ Mr. Stafford could not 
have stayed all this time, at any rate, Tom ; 
and we could not tell when you would be 
free to come back. It was better to let him 
go.” 

“ Gone ! ” exclaimed Tom. It was at this 
point that he gave vent to the lively expres- 
sions of astonishment and dismay above re- 
corded. “How? When? Why was I not 
told ? ” 

“ You had enough to think about. There 
was no use troubling you.” The speaker had 
enacted the scene in ber mind over and over 
again, and had resolved upon her own part. 

“ Troubling me ! ” echoed Tom, standing still 
to look at her. “ Troubling me ? I don’t un- 
derstand. How should it ‘ trouble me ’ ? ” 


250 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


Ida bit her lip. She had not meant the 
phrase to be interpreted thus. 

And Tom had so little tact. If she did not 
manage to convey to him that for some parti- 
cular reason she wished no more said on the 
matter, he would pursue it tooth and nail, even 
under the very noses of inquisitive uncles, 
aunts, and cousins. He was capable of follow- 
ing her all about the large drawing-room, in- 
quiring and protesting. 

She could depend upon Tom if once he per- 
ceived anything amiss, but how convey to him 
the hint ? No sort of movement, in the shape 
of a pinch, or a subterranean kick — inelegant 
but effective — was possible, and equally impos- 
sible was a frown, or warning glance. She was 
beneath a fire of watchful eyes, and it seemed 
to her as though, in the silence around, she read 
the hush of expectation. 

The poor girl knew not what to do. She 
had not reckoned on such a passionate protest, 
having considered that the newly-arrived trav- 
eller would be taken up with other things, his 
home-coming, his guests, his letters — she had 
provided herself with a pile of business letters 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


251 


which she now thrust into his hand — and be- 
forehand it had seemed as if she should easily 
dispose of Maurice Statford’s absence. 

But here was Tom, her usually calm and 
discreet brother, belabouring them all with 
angry questions aiid obvious condemnation. 
His tone, his air, and whole unconcealed dis- 
comfiture meant, “ What have you all been 
about to let this man go ? ” and that so much 
was understood by most of the party was 
plain. 

“ I am sure, dear Tom, neither your uncle 
nor I thought that it signified — I mean that 
appearances signified — we are not great people 
for etiquette,” protested Mrs. Lytton, who was 
the first to find voice, “ it was of course a little 
awkward, you and dear Ida both being absent 
— Ida had to keep her room, you know, for 
three whole days — but then we all knew so 
exactly how it was, that really, really we 
thought — I am sure your uncle and I thought 
— and indeed I believe we all did — ” looking 
round for confirmation of the statement, that 
Mr. Stafford need not have gone.” 

“ Why, of course it ivas unusual ; of course I 


252 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


know that, aunt Bess,” the young man’s ])ro\\^ 
began to clear, “ but then, as you say, the cir- 
cumstances were patent to everybody. I par- 
ticularly begged that everybody would stay on, 
when I wrote up from the post-office that night 
— you know I did, Ida,” turning to her, “ and 
I repeated it in every letter since. Did you 
not tell Maurice what I said ? ” 

A terrible question. It was revealed to 
nearly all present in one and the same instant 
that Tom liad put a terrible question ; and the 
little boys alone unconcernedly waited for a 
reply. None came : like a tortured creature 
which can make no moan, Ida di*ew in a long, 
slow breath and her lips slightly trembled, as 
she pressed theui close, — but no words escaped. 
Then Tom perceived what he was doing. 

“Oh, well, if he had to go, he had to go,” 
cried he, makino; a movement towards breakim^* 
up the group. “ I’m disappointed, because he 
is such a good fellow, and a good shot ; and 
now-that the open weather has come back, we 
might have made some good bags — but it can’t 
be helped. You can’t force a man to stay 
against his will, can you, uncle Jack ? I’m 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


*258 


only glad you did not all bolt off too, the mo- 
ment my back was turned,” trying hard for his 
first cheery note. “ It’s all right about Beech 
Farm anyhow, Ida.” 

Is it ? ” replied she, indifferently. Yet she 
appreciated her brother’s effort, and would fain 
have seconded him better. 

“ Mr. Trusty has him fast — I mean Hodgson 
— but I haven’t heard the particulars ; and I 
don’t quite understand why any one needed to 
go up to London. Hodgson wrote on Satur- 
day.” And he entered into one of the -disqui- 
sitions which were such gall and wormwood to 
General Thistleblow. 

In the present instance, howevei*, the lengthi- 
est discourse and the drowsiest topic was the 
best for the purpose. 

In reality Tom was as eager to put an end 
to the scene, and break up the party, as was 
his sister. He was now aroused, alert, keenly 
suspicious, and profoundly disgusted. Some- 
thing had gone wrong because he was not there 
to keep all right; and when he thought of the 
future that hung upon this “ going wrong,” he 
had scarce patience to get through his cold 


254 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


pheasant, and waved aside every other dish on 
the Slipper table. He must get Ida to himself 
if it were but for a few minutes, before her 
door was bolted for the night. 

As a matter of fact, it was bolted when 
he tapped ; but he heard steps approach 
within, and knew he should not be sent 
away. 

“ I thought you would come,” said Ida. 

Then she walked to the mantelpiece, as 
though expecting him to follow, and he saw 
her take down some letters which had been 
ranged in front of the little clock. Five 
minutes before, the letters had been placed 
there. Usually, they were kept under lock 
and key. 

But Tom was expected, and everything was 
ready for him, though a barred entrance meant 

No admission ” to other visitors. 

“Sit down,” said Ida, handing her brother 
three open envelopes. “ I daresay you will 
blame me, Tom, and I don’t know that I have 
acted honourably; but I just felt I had to do 
it. I have opened and read two of your letters 
which were not meant for me — at least they 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


255 


were meant for me, but not for me to open. 
There was nothing in them that I, as a woman, 
might not read,” blushing deeply, “ because 
they only say in other language what my cor- 
respondent (this is my own letter,” indicating 
with her finger), ‘^also says. Are you follow- 
ing me, Tom ? ” 

I don’t exactly understand, you know,” 
said Tom, slowly. “You ought not to go and 
open my letters, you know.” 

“ It was you yourself who told me to open 
them.” 

“ Oh — ah — yes, I forgot. Because of the 
farm. But then, you need not have read them 
if they were not about the farm.” 

“No, I need not — but I did. Shall I tell 
you why ? I saw a name — ” she paused. 

“ Was it Stafford’s name ? ” said Tom, ab- 
ruptly. Usually he spoke of “Maurice,” but 
he did not feel inclined to say “ Maurice ” at 
the moment. 

His sister’s face was averted from him. She 
made no answer, only nodded her head. 

“ Was that why he left? ” It was full half 
a minute before he put the question. 


25G 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“Yes/' The husky whisper just reached 
his ear. 

“ Let me see the letters,” said Tom, holding 
out his hand. “ You say one was for you, and 
two were for me. Did they all come together, 
or how ? ” 

“ One of yours — that one — from Colonel 
Jessop ” 

“ From Colonel Jessop ? ” 

“ It came the day you left. It was in the 
post-bag which you missed.” 

“ Ha ? And it was among those letters 
which I told you to look through ? ” 

“ Yes. But I had mv own first.” 

*/ 

“ And who was yours from ? ” 

“ Lady Sophia Clarke. Oh, Tom, such a 
letter ! Such a mean, spiteful, malingering let- 
ter ! You know how she liked Mr. Stafford i 
You know how she used to beckon him to sit 
by her, and make him talk to her, and how 
she tried to get him away with her? Now 
she says that ‘ with real regret ’ and all 
sorts of hypocritical expressions, she hears he 
is still staying on here, and — and a great deal 
more.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


2ol 


What does she mean by that ? ” 

“ She makes out that he is a — a — bad 
man.” 

Oh, she makes out that, does she ? ” 

“ I see you despise her as I did — do ; but 
Tom, it will not do — to — we cannot despise 
Sir Eobert.” 

Sir Eobert ? Is he in it too ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, and Colonel Jessop, and General 
Thistleblow,” said Ida, with a little hysterical 
laugh, “ they are all in it, everyone of them. 
Eead your letters, and you will see. That last, 
from General Thistleblow, only came this 
morning.” 

“ Look hei*e, Ida, before I start on them, I 
want to ask you one thing.” 

There was an instantaneous hush of Ida’s 
laugh. She guessed what was coming. 

Did Maurice Stafford ask you to marry 
him ? ” said Tom, in his plain way. I had 
rather hear that first, before I look at these 
letters.” 

No, he did not. But,” said Ida, turning 
her head aside, and nervously clasping and un- 
clasping her liands as she spoke, “ I did not 
17 


258 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


give him the chance. Tom, did you think I 

would, when I knew ’’ 

“ Oh, you knew ? ” 

“I knew enough. I had read Lady Sophia’s 
note ” 

“ One drop of the poison — yes ? ” 

“ Before he came in that day. He had 
asked to see me before he went shooting with 
you.” 

“ Oh, he had ? ” 

And I had promised to — to let him come 
to the boudoir. There was no harm in it, Tom. 

I — he — you know how it was, Tom ” 

“ I know — yes.” 

“I thought I might,” continued poor Ida, 
making her simple confession with downcast 
eyes and burning brow, “ and I waited for him 
so long,” suddenly there ^vas the sound of a 
low sob. waited and waited; but he — 
he — ” she could not go on. 

Did he not come ? ” 

“ Not till too late.” 

“ What did he say for himself ? ” 

‘‘ Nothing — for I never saw him.” 

“What did you do, Ida? Tell me exactly, 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


259 


if you can. Don’t mind telling me, you know. 
I — I may have something to tell you, by-and- 
by.” 

Then Ida narrated all that the reader has 
already heard and a little more, which will 
presently be made known. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


HAD TO DO MY DUTY,” SAID TOM. 

“ Then you actually turned him out of the 
house ? ” said Tom, at last. 

“ I suppose I did.” 

“ He will never forgive you, Ida.” 

“ Why should he forgive me ? It is I who 
have something to forgive, not Mr. Stafford.” 

Tom looked at his sister curiously. “Are 
you sure of that ? ” he inquired. 

“ If I could have doubted ; ” there was a 
world of pain in the girl’s voice ; “don’t you 
think I would have done it ? Don’t you think 
I would have been glad to do it ? Again and 
again I almost went back to the boudoir ; I had 
my hand upon the door handle, and — I stopped 
in time; Tom, why do you look at me like 
that?” 

“You women are strange creatures. If you 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


•201 


had been a man you would have had it out 
with Maurice.” 

“ How could I have it out ? What could I 
say ? I could not go to him with these letters 
and say, ‘ See how our friends have found you 
out. You could deceive us poor simpletons 
because we are young and foolish, and trusted 
you ; but you cannot prevent the world’s 
knowing you for what you are. Get you 
gone.’ That was what I ought to have said 
if 1 had spoken at all. It was easiest to hold 
my peace.” 

“ And condemn a man unheard.” 

“ There are some things which are best left 
unheard. ” 

A man should always be heard in his own 
defence.” 

“Yes — by a man. A woman can’t either 
speak, or hear, until ” 

“Until when?” said Tom, as she stopped 
short. 

“ Until she has the right,” replied his sister, 
in a low voice. “ Mr. Stafford had given me 
no right.” 

“ Poor fellow, luck was dead against him,” 


262 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


rejoined Tom, with a smile. If only I had 
been here ! This has been a queer business 
altogether. I have some queer things to tell 
you. Several monstrous queer things. So 
many that, ’pon my word, I — I hardly know 
where to begin. It’s awfully late,” glancing at 
the clock. 

“ Oh, never mind that.” So many times re- 
cently had that little timepiece been consulted, 
and always because some sad, lonely hour had 
had to be dragged through, or because another 
must needs be anticipated with dread and re- 
luctance, that Ida had almost come to hate the 
sight of its bright face, and the sound of its 
cheerful tick. But something in her brother’s 
tone caused a new sensation in her breast ; she 
had not expected to be upbraided, and the re- 
proachful accents fell like balm upon her open 
wound. 

The fact is,” quoth Tom, sententiously, 
“ you have been hasty, Ida.” 

‘‘ Hasty ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t say that, all things considered, it is 
not as well that Maurice Stafford took himself 
off, but it was a pity you made him do it.” 


THE ONE GOOD QUEST. 


2G3 


‘‘ You think it was as well he went ? ’’ A 
pang shot through her heart. 

“ Considering that you had those letters, it 
might have been awkward for you if he had 

stayed, since I was not here to ” 

‘‘ To do what ? Do get on. Do please talk 
a little faster. What could you have done ? 
What good would your being here have been ? ” 
“ It happens that I, too, have some letters to 
show.” He pulled out a pocket-book. 

“ People think I’m only a young fool,” he 
said, “ and, of course, I don’t know much. But 
I’m not quite such an ass as General Thistle- 
blow takes me for. I might not have thought 
of making inquiries about Stafford, if he had 
only been down for a week’s shooting — I mean 
making close inquiries. I took it for granted 
that he could shoot here as he had shot at Lady 
De Rigueur’s, she having also girls about, and 
being a particular woman, who knows the 
world ; but von don’t suppose, Ida, that I am 
such an absolute idiot as to see a man making 
love to my sister, and getting encouragement 
from her, without informing myself as to who 
and what he is ? ’Pon my word, I am greatly 


264 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


obliged to my fi’iends for their opinion of me. 
And you too ; I should have thought you girls 
might have known me better — you, Ida, at 
least. It seems I’m not fit to be trusted with 

the care of my own sisters ” 

Tom, what is — all this — about ? ” The 
broken words made themselves just audible. 

“ Here are my letters,” said Tom, still trying 
hard to be injured and indignant. Which 
will you see first ? The one from the colonel 
of his regiment, the other from my college 
chum, who turns out to be his nearest neigh- 
bour at home ? ” 

Ida took the letters. “ You wrote to them ? ” 
she murmured in awe-stricken accents. “ But, 
Tom — how — why — when did you write ? Tom, 
what made you write ? ” 

“ Girls like you do not understand such 
things.” Tom stuck out his chin ; he was im- 
mensely pleased with himself now. “It is for 
the men of the family to take precautions when 
they see rocks ahead. I had hardly invited 
Maurice to stay on behind the others, before I 
began to perceive why he was willing to stay ; 
and I wrote straight off, first to Mellor, who by 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


265 . 


good luck had been mentioned the same day — 
you remember his telling us he knew Mellor ? — 
and then to Colonel Wallace.” 

“ But, Tom, why did you not tell me ? ” 

“ These are the sort of things men don’t tell,” 
said Tom, loftily. 

“ But, Tom — oh, Tom — it is all so strange, 
Tom.” There was a new ring of hope even in 
the speaker’s doubtful tones. “Was it — was 
it quite the riglit thing to do to make inquiries 
about our own guest, the man staying in our 
house ? ” 

“ The right thing ” appealed to Tom at once. 
“ Ah, there you are ; now I agree with you,” 
said he patronisingly : “ you are perfectly cor- 
rect there ; it would not have been the right 
thing at all in an ordinary case, but this was not 
an ordinary case. I had to do my duty. I have 
got to take care of all you, my sisters, and if a 

young fellow begins making up to you ” 

“ But ought you not to have w^aited till ” 

“ Certainly not. That would have been the 
old dodge of shutting the stable door after the 
horse was stolen. I did not want you to be 
hankerino^ after Maurice ” 

O 


266 


THE ONE 0001) QUEST. 


‘‘ But Ilow did you explain it to these 
men ? ” 

“Oh, I told them the truth.” 

“ What did you say ? ” All of this was 
rather dreadful to poor Ida. “ How did you 
put it ? Did you say that — that he was here 
— and that we had — had asked him to stay 
on?” 

“ Never you mind what I said.” (“ Good 
Lord, it would never do to tell her ! ” ejaculated 
Tom, inwardly.) “ You read what they say, 
and that ought to be enough for you. It will 
be enough for old Thistleblow, too, or I am 
mistaken. He has sprung a mare’s nest. It’s 
the wrong man he has got hold of — and Jessop 
too.” 

“But Lady Sophia? — Sir Robert?” mur- 
mured Ida. 

The whole pack has opened cry on the same 
false scent,” said Tom, with intense satisfac- 
tion, “ and we’ll make them hold their tails 
down — see if we don’t. I am only sorry you 
let Maurice go away. It would have been 
such a score to have announced the engage- 
ment ! ” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 2(57 

Ida tul’ned away her head. A score ? Oh, 
if Tom only knew. She had softened the mat- 
ter to Tom, had missed out sundry details, and 
smoothed the outline of others. In reality she 
had made it impossible for her lover to remain, 
and had flatly refused him. the interview he 
had begged for. There had been divers com- 
munications, and the flnal stroke had been de- 
livered thus. Ida had penned a careful line in 
which, with a formality of which she had once 
believed herself incapable, she had deeply re- 
gretted that Mr. Stafford should have had such 
an unpleasant termination to his visit, but had 
informed him that as she did not expect her 
brother to return for some days, it would be a '* 
pity he should lose the sport he might be hav- 
ing elsewhere by waiting on at Duckhill. 

The little note had been handed to Maurice 
on Sunday afternoon; he had gone straight to 
his room, packed his things, and left by the 
night train — the train he had previously rec- 
ommended to Mr. Trusty, the bailiff. 

A second time Ida had felt as if her dictum 
had been forestalled. She had not intended 
Mr. Stafford to leave till next day. She now 


2G8 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


opened the envelopes in her hand with shak- 
ing fingers. 

You know he did have to leave his regi- 
ment,” she murmured. “He himself told us 
that.” 

“ Gospel truth. But see what his colonel 
has to say to it.” 

“ And he did have to leave Oxford, too.” 

“ Have to leave Oxford ? How could he 
have to leave Oxford when he was in the ser- 
vice at the time ? ” 

“ I suppose it was before he went into the 
army.” 

“ It was nothing of the kind ; it was — the 
leaving Oxford was — at the same time ; a Staf- 
ford had to leave Oxford, and because he had, 
another Stafford had to leave his regiment.” 

“ Tom, what do you mean ? ” 

Tom nodded at the colonel’s letter, and then 
at last his sister read it. It did not escape her 
that the word “ Private ” was very distinctly 
written and underlined at the top of the sheet. 
Scattered over the pages were one or two more 
emphatically underlined phrases. The closing 
sentence, however, is all that we need give our 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


269 


readers. I have the greatest possible regard 
for Sfcatford, and no one regretted his loss more 
than I did ; though, of course, being a family 
atfair, I could not see it my place to inter- 
fere.” 

That is something of a testimony, isn’t it ? ” 
quoth Tom, eyeing the reader triumphantly. 
“ I think it will blow these great guns in town 
pretty well to pieces, won’t it ? But now, you 
read the other, the one from Mellor. His peo- 
ple have known Staiford’s people for years. I 
couldn’t have applied to a better man. ‘ You 
read what he says : it is even better — at least 
he seems to know more about it all than Col- 
onel Wallace — of course, though, to have the 
word of the colonel of his regiment is a greater 
score. Now, you read Mellor.” 

Thus adjured, she read Mellor. 

“ I don’t know a better fellow going than 
Maurice Statford,” thus ran the note after the 
preliminaiy sentence, nor a more oifensive 
young scapegrace than his brother Ted. Not 
content with all sorts of respectable debts, he 
has been borrowing money from highways and 
byways objectionable to name. The poor old 


270 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


dad, not over well off, and shaky in his health, 
is almost heart-broken ; and it was to relieve 
him and save their good name that the eldest 
son gave ujd his commission. His regiment was 
too expensive ; and, besides, he was wanted at 
home to look after the young one. The young 
one was getting mixed up with a woman in the 
neighbourhood — the old story. However, I 
hear there is a chance of shipping him off to 
the antipodes, and sincerely hope it may be 
true. He is an ungrateful cub, too, for when 
caught in a gambling den, half fuddled, and 
covered with slips of paper, he had the cheek 
to give his name as ^ Maurice.’ Rather good, I 
must own, and Maurice himself laughed at it. 
He is one of those good-natured souls who takes 
life easy, and when it was suggested that it 
might be awkward if it got about, he only 
laughed again. Perhaps you may have heard 
this story, and confounded the two brothers, as 
you ask me so particularly as to character ? If 
so, set your mind at rest. There are any num- 
ber of us to swear to Maurice Stafford’s char- 
acter.” 

There now, you see,” began Tom, j)erceiv- 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


271 


mg that the last line of the sheet had been 
reached, see — oh, I say,” with sudden 

perception, “ I’m awfully sorry, you know, Ida 
— never mind — it will be all right yet. You 
could not tell what you were doing, you 
know.” She had hidden her face, but he saw 
that she was weeping. “ It’s a great deal bet- 
ter this way than if it had been the other, isn’t 
it now? ” said Tom, jogging her elbow gently 
by way of sympathy ; “ and I say, Ida, listen,” 
putting his mouth close to her ear, “ listen to 
this. I have got something to tell you that I 
know you will be glad to hear — something 
about myself. I am — in the same way myself 
— that’s what it is. And — and — if all goes 
well we’ll have a double wedding in the 
pring.” 

Then he told her all. 


***** 

A very quiet Sunday passed. Whatever 
might be the tumultuous sensations at work 
within the breasts of some of the party, there 
was no token visible to the outward eye. The 
observances of the day were kept with the 


272 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


strict attention always exacted at Duckliill. 
There were the usual large, cheerful gather- 
ings for meals, and the leisurely rambling 
hither and thither between whiles, wdiich ob- 
tains in many such quiet country houses. 

A long visit was paid to the stables, and 
another to the kennels ; there was an inspec- 
tion of some damage done by the frost; and 
advice was given and taken regarding certain 
out-door repairs under discussion. In the af- 
ternoon a brisk walk was proposed. 

Rather to the surprise of his uncles and 
cousins, Tom, who usually headed the walking 
party, did not put on his coat, though he was 
careful to assure everybody that the lanes 
were quite passable, and that there would be 
no more rain that day. He was going up to 
sit with Ida, he said. 

To sit with Ida ! ” repeated Maud to her 
sister, when she heard this. “ Not over polite 
to us, I must own. lie has been away the 
whole week, and the very day after he gets 
back he shirks us all to go and sit with Ida ! 

Mrs. Lytton, however, took another view of 
the case. “ J ust like dear Tom,” murmured 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


273 


she ; “ he has waited till now to hear what Ida 
has been doing to Maurice Stafford. Now we 
shall hear at last. Something, of course, must 
have taken place, or Mr. Stafford would never 
have gone off as he did. And Ida had evi- 
dently kept it back from Tom. I would not 
disturb them for the world — not for the world. 
I will only just lie in wait to catch Tom as he 
comes downstairs, and if no one interrupts us, 
as we were interrupted before, he will be sure 
to tell me everything.” 

She .set the library door ajar and sat ’facing 
it, with a book of sermons on her lap. 

After an hour’s silence, a movement on the 
upper landing was heard. 

Now for it ! ” concluded aunt Bess, joy- 
fully, “now he will come downstairs, and just 
as he reaches the lower steps, I will stroll out 
quite naturally, and ask him to take a turn 
outside. The sun is shining, and one ought 
not to miss a whole afternoon ” — shutting her 
book — “ a little turn in the garden ” — and 
she was never destined to have it, for Tom 
never descended the staircase ! 

It was quite true that he had left his sister ; 

18 


274 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


true also that his steps had been heard upon 
the landing; but he had turned down his own 
passage, and retreated into his own chamber. 
He had work on hand. 

It must seem most uncommonly rude to 
you,” said he, an hour later, “ but the fact is, 
if I don’t go to town to-night, I should be away 
three days, whereas if I leave at nine I can get 
back on Tuesday to breakfast. But really I 
don’t know what to say to you all. Of course 
nothing but business ” 

“ If it’s business, Tom, there is no more to be 
said.” Tom blessed the speaker in his heart. 

Business,” continued uncle Jack in his wisest 
accents, “ business before everything. You did 
a mighty good stroke of business when you ran 
away last week ” 

“ My dear J ohn ! ” A wifely remonstrance 
nipped the plain dealer at this point. 

“Eh? Well? Well, of course Tom knows 
what I mean,” said he, somewhat abashed. “ I 
forgot what the precise circumstances were. 
You need not all look at me like that,” grow- 
ing testy under reproving glances. “ I tell you 
I forgot. But business is business, and I stand 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


275 


by the man who puts it first. Go it, Tom, my 
boy. Go about your business — eh ? What ? 
Ha, ha, ha ! That was not bad, was it, 
Charlie ? Did you hear that, Harry ? He is 
to ^ go about his business,’ eh ? Ha ! ” rubbing 
his hands with the exultation of a man who 
has had a jest thrown at him, and has only 
needed to stoop and pick it up. 

The rest of the party, however, were not so 
complaisant ; it did seem as if their host could 
have remained at home for a day or two at 
least, before rushing oif again. Maud 'began 
to rally him. 

“ It does not look as if you valued our 
society very much, I must own, sir,” cried she. 
‘‘We all know what men mean when they 
plead business. You are longing for a run to 
town ” 

“ And two cold night journeys.” 

“Oh, night journeys are nothing. Men 
prefer them. There was Mr. Stafford : this 
day week he vaulted off just in the same 
fashion ; ‘ business ' called him. I wager he 
had never thought of the business till an 
hour before he started ! Not one Avord of 


‘276 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST, 


it did we hear till he was in the act of de- 
parture.” 

“You are quite right,” said Tom, coolly. 
“ He had not thought of it, but as one man 
would not go, another did. My bailiff, old 
Trusty, a good soul but narrow-minded, ob- 
jected to travelling on Sunday night, though 
he knew it was important to see a tenant I had 
in prospect for one of my best farms on Mon- 
day morning; and Maurice Stafford went in 
his place. That is to say, I don’t mean that 
he would have gone at any rate, but as he 
could not very well remain on here without 
me, he concluded to do me a good turn at the 
same time. He got me my tenant.” 

“ But you did not know he had gone ? ” 

“ I knew nothing about it till I saw Trusty 
just now. I am hoping — ah — to see Staffoi*d 
to-morrow, and — ah — thank him.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


BREAKFAST AT A CLUB. 

A YOUNG gentleman has been inquiring for 
you, sir.” 

In spite of an incipient moustache carefully 
cultivated, Tom Barnet had not yet succeeded 
in being simply styled “ a gentleman ” by club 
waiters. To their experienced eyes, youth was 
depicted on every curve of his smooth cheek 
and every movement of his lithe, supple frame; 
and this was especially distinguishable within 
the solemn portals frequented by General This- 
tleblow, a club sacred to maturity, and seldom 
invaded by the rising generation. Its mem- 
bers were apt to get stiffly out of their chairs, 
and move offl with uneven tread until the old 
joints warmed up, and worked more easily. 
Stairs were much disliked. Even the entrance 
steps were taken slowly, and occasionally side- 
ways. It was not unusual for short exclama- 


278 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


tions such as “ Ah ! ” and “ Oh ! ” to be heard 
when great-coats were being pulled off or put 
on. Assistants were expected to be very handy 
and gentle. One man had been dismissed be- 
cause he had a rough touch. 

In this calm retreat one could grow older 
and older almost without knowing it ; and 
though it was years since General Thistleblow 
and Colonel Jessop had been balloted in, and 
they had lost much hair and gained many 
wrinkles in the interim, neither was conscious 
of decay, and each would have stoutly main- 
tained himself as good a man in all essentials 
as when he first entered his name in the club 
book. 

The one thing which marred this illusion 
was the presence of younger fellows ; fellows 
who were joining at the same age they had 
been when they joined ; and yet who were not 
young fellows as the world called young. On 
them would bitter looks be cast, and at them 
would innuendoes be levelled ; whereas the 
very young did not so jar upon the nerves ; 
they were “ boys,” mere “ boys ; ” they knew 
nothing, had seen nothing ; like young bears 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


279 


they had “ all their troubles before them/’ In 
consequence they could be pitied, and endured. 

It was this pitying attitude of General This- 
tleblow towards himself which peneti’ated more 
deeply beneath the stolid exterior of Tom Bar- 
net than anything else could have done. He 
had no notion that much of it was assumed ; 
that his quondam guardian in reality stood in 
considerable awe and fear of himself ; nor that 
while he was eager to show himself no fool to 
General Thistleblow, General Thistleblow was 
doing him the honour to be just as anxious to 
prove him one. 

Thistleblow had been somewhat surprised at 
receiving no reply to his note despatched to 
Duckhill on the previous Friday, when he in- 
spected his letters on Monday morning. He 
had written Tom Barnet a facer,” he thought, 
and Tom was not the mail to receive a “ facer” 
in silence. Some sort of an answer back might 
liave been counted on ; yet here were all the 
mails in — it was nearly noon, and he was just 
iroino- to breakfast — and no word from Duck- 
hill. 

“ Snowed up, or rained up, or frozen in, per- 


280 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


liaps ? ” muttered Le, witli a grin. “ Tlie snow 
and frost has departed from every other part 
of the country, but I’ll be bound it holds its 
own still at Duckhill. Gad ! what a place to 
live in ! Only good sport could make it endur- 
able. Eh ? What ? ” as he became conscious 
of a voice at his elbow. “ Speak louder, can’t 
ye ? ” inclining an ear that was not so quick as 
it had once been. ' “ What d’ye say ? Who 
has been here ? ” 

‘‘ A young gentleman, sir. Said he would 
call again in an hour.” 

“ Did he leave no name ? ” 

“ No, sir. But the hour is nearly up, sir.” 

“ Can it be Tom ? ” reflected Thistleblow ; 
and, in spite of himself, he rather wished it 
were not Tom. “ My letter was a pretty stiff 
one, but hardly enough to have brought a cool 
youngster like that straight off up here. If 
Tom were like most firebrands of his age, he 
might have darted off — but I don’t fancy you 
catch my very prudent and cautious 3^oung 
friend doing anything in such hot haste. He 
will chew the cud of my communication first. 
No, no ; it can’t be Tom. Tom is a real old 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


281 


‘ slow coach.’ He would never dash ofE at a 
moment’s notice. I need not be afraid of its 
being — Why., Tom, lioiv are you f How are 
you, my good fellow \ ” as the entrance door 
swung open at the moment. Didn’t know 
you were in town. Have you come to break- 
fast ? I’m just sitting down. Come in — eh, 
had your breakfast? Oh, you young fellows 
are so deuced early nowadays ; in my day we 
were up all night, and in bed half the day. 
That was your father’s style, Tom. But you 
boys of to-day go in for health and longevity. 
Quite right — quite right. Nothing like early 
hours and open air for reddening the gills. 
You look so abominably healthy, you young 
scamp, you make us all ashamed of ourselves. 
As if you had just been pulled out of the 
river ! Well, how goes all at Duckhill ? Sit 
down, and we can talk,” having reached an 
empty table in the dining-room. “ Y ou — ah — ■ 
got my lettei*, I suppose ? ” 

The change of accent was slight, but per- 
ceptible. 

“ I got yours on Saturday night. General 
Thistleblow,’^ said Tom, sitting down, and try- 


282 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


ing to take as long over the operation as his 
companion did. “ I have been away from 
home this last week ; but I returned on Satur- 
day.” 

“Been away from home/’ in evident sur- 
prise ; “ why, I — I — oh, then perhaps I need 
not have written ? Somebody has been telling 
me a cock-and-bull story, perhaps. I took it 
up too hastily, perhaps. William, W^illiam,” 
to the waiter. “ This toast is too hard ; take 
it away ; and get me some softer. I have said 
so before. Hard toast is detestable.” 

The long-sutfering William whipped otf the 
rack ; he had long ceased to wonder why he 
was always being told the toast was too hard. 
He understood and sympathised. 

“ I — ah — the fact is, I got uneasy about you 
and yours, Tom ; you will excuse it from your 
father’s old friend. Of course I take a father- 
ly interest in the girls, and if anything hap- 
pened to Ida ” he paused, and waited for 

rejoinder. 

A quiet smile passed over Tom’s face. 

“ Thanks, awfully.” Not another word did 
he say. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


283 


‘‘Ida is such a charming girl,’’ the old gen- 
eral proceeded, feeling more at ease since he had 
got fairly started on the topic in hand, “ such 
a fine-looking girl, and so full of spirit and all 
that sort of. thing, that she is the very girl to 
run her head against the rocks if one doesn’t 
look out. ’Pon my word, she ought to liave a 
woman to take care of her, as Lady Sophia 
Clarke says. Deuced interfering Avoman, Lady 
Sophia, — but she is in the right sometimes. A 
girl can’t be expected to steer her own craft, 
and you are all young together down at Duck- 
hill; so — so ” 

“ We can’t help being young. General ; Ave’ll 
grow older presently.” 

“ Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so and 
you have done uncommonly Avell, young as 
you are, already. Got your pi’operty well in 
hand, your farms all let ; no reductions ; no 
bother — but about this Maurice Stafford, Tom. 
No one blames you; you were not likely to 
hear things, living out of the world as you do, 
you are out of the reach of civilised beings, 
ha ! ha ! ha ! Stafford is a pleasant scapegrace, 
I must own. Would win his Avay anywhere, 


284 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


and^ of course, with such very young peo- 
ple ” 

“ I think he won it with some of the older 
ones, too,” observed Tom, drily. 

“ To be sure he did ; not with some, but 
with all. Myself, and Wortlebury, the Jes-' 
sops, the Clarkes — we were all taken with 

him. Naturally Ida ” 

“ Ida ? Who said anything about Ida ? ” de- 
manded Tom, looking up in well-feigned aston- 
ishment. “ You say ‘ naturally Ida,’ why ‘ nat- 
urally ; ’ and what do you infer that Ida did ? ” 
The move was decidedly artful. General 
Thistleblow was thrown back a full pace. 

“ My dear fellow, you read my letter ? ” 

I read your letter, certainly ; but that does 
not help me at all now.” 

“ Why, my dear Tom, not help you ? Why, 
what should I have written about if it were not 
to help you ? I wrote because from what I 
heard, you were harbouring this young black- 
guard — of course in all innocence — at your own 
quiet place, where he was taking the opportu- 
nity of making up to Ida. It was to save Ida 
I meddled in the affair at all ; though I must 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


285 


say, Tom, as your old friend and late — ahem ! 
guardian, that I think a little more caution in 
choosing your own associates would not have 
been amiss, even if there had been no sister in 
the question. A very few inquiries would have 
put you in possession of the truth about Staf- 
ford, and you would not then have made 
a mess of it by asking him to make one of 
a party at your house, either. Women like 
Lady Sophia Clarke don’t like being obliged 
to be on intimate terms with disreputable char- 
acters, and I am told her ladyship is very cross 
about it.” 

Oh, she is,” said Tom ; “ we know she is.” 

“ You do, by Jove ? ” 

She wrote to Ida. I have had another 
letter on the subject also.” 

“ Have you? ” 

From Colonel Jessop. And here he comes, 
in good time,” as the door swung back. “ How 
do you do. Colonel Jessop. I daresay you are 
surprised that you did not hear from me be- 
fore, but the fact is, I have been away from 
home, attending the funeral of a relation, and 
did not get back till Saturday. I thought I 


286 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


should see you here. I am up on business, and 
looked in to see General Thistleblow.” 

“You did not come up on purpose then?” 
General Thistleblow pronounced aloud the 
thought which arose in both his mind and Jes- 
sop’s at the moment. 

“ Oh, dear no,” said Tom, with almost a 
drawl. “ It wasn’t worth that,” he added, with 
a derisive smile. Had Ida beheld him, she 
would have been proud of her brother. 

“ Eh ? Oh ? I’m glad, of course,” muttered 
Thistleblow. “ I was afraid perhaps from your 
haste ” inquiringly. 

“ My haste had quite another object,” I’eplied 
Tom, still preserving nonchalance. “ I thought 
I might as well look in as I was here, and con- 
sidering you had both taken the trouble to 
write to me. I am sure it was awfully kind 
and well meant, and all that. It happens to be 

all rot ” both the elder gentlemen started, 

and General Thistleblow dropped his toast. 
“ You couldn’t know it was rot, of course,” con- 
tinued Tom, with tlje same air of patronising 
indifference, “ and, of course, if there had been 
anything it it — anything whatever — ” smiling 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


287 


in each face by turns, “ it would have been a 
great thing to have been warned in time. As 
it is, I am sorry you had the bother of it. It 
was my fault for not letting you know all 
about Stafford.” 

But, good heavens ! my dear fellow, you 
knew nothing yourself — you know nothing 
now ” 

‘^Excuse me. General, I know everything 
now. I have seen a great deal of Staffoi*d 
since you left Duckhill. He was with us till 
last Sunday.” 

“ Hum ! Nearly a month,” observed Colo- 
nel Jessop. Hitherto he had held his tongue. 

“ Nearly a month — yes,” said Tom, cheei*- 
fully. “We like him. He paid us a very 
pleasant visit.” 

“ And your sisters, sir — your sisters ? ” de- 
manded General Thistleblow, now growing 
angry. “ What about them, sir ? They like 
liim too, I su|)pose ? Ida likes him, I suppose ; 
and yet you took me up short just now ” 

“ You have no right to suppose anything 
about my sister Ida. I won’t have my sister’s 
name enter into this discussion.” On a sudden 


288 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


Tom took tlie bit between liis teetli. “ Because 
I ask a friend to stop witli me, and shoot witli 
me, and because I happen to have sisters living 
at home, are they to be insulted by the pre- 
sumption that as a natural and inevitable se- 
quence, they — or one of them — is in love with 
him ? That is what I mean about Ida, Gen- 
eral Thistleblow. Understand that she has 
nothing to do with the matter in hand. You 
accuse Statford of not being a proper friend for 
me, or suitor for her. My friend he is. Stick 
to that fact, and make good your accusation 
against him. It is worth so little,’’ laughing 
scornfully, “ that I don’t advise you to press it 
too closely. But in the light of a suitor Mr. 
Stafford has not yet shown himself, so we may 
dismiss that charge.” .He folded his arms and 
lounged back in his chair, and the two old sol- 
diers glanced at each other. 

Amazement took away their powers of 
speech. 

All of this is mighty fine, Tom,” said Gen- 
eral Thistleblow at last, and you are quite 
right to bluster it off, if you can; but I warn 
you bluff won’t pay unless it is backed up l)y 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


289 


solid facts in this instance. Your friend Staf- 
ford, whom you have been admitting to your 
family circle in the most intimate manner, is a 
disreputable scoundrel, a fellow who was kicked 
out of his regiment, and who has broken his 
father’s heart. He preys upon anybody he 
comes across, and you being his latest and 
simplest victim, he has gulled you completely. 
It may or may not be true that he is after Ida 
— he may be only flirting wdth her ” 

“ I told you to let her name alone. Under- 
stand that I mean it.” 

“ You talk in a very unbecoming manner, 
very unbecoming, and — and disrespectful ; yes, 
by Jove, disrespectful. You are mortified at 
being found guilty of a piece of folly, and vent 
your spleen on me. I tell you, sir, you ought 
to know better.” 

“ I am not mortified,” said Tom, boldly. 

I have no cause to be mortified, as I shall 
very soon show. But I am determined not to 
have my sister’s name dragged into this affair, 
and if you will persist in referring to her, I 
shall simply take up my hat, and leave you to 

find out from other sources what a ridiculous 
19 • 


290 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


blunder has been made among you. Lady So- 
phia Clarke may as well learn the truth too.” 

“ Gad ! I wish I had let it alone ! ” mut- 
tered Jessop, under his breath. 

For after all, neither he nor Thistleblow had 
a proof to offer, nor a person to fall back upon. 
They could not even, when conf]*onted by Tom’s 
scornful eyes, be positive as to what each had 
heard, or from whom they had heard it. Jes- 
sop thought it came from one quarter ; Thistle- 
blow from another. 

Thistleblow grew angry with Jessop at last. 
“ It was I who told you, you slipshod fellow. 
You did not hear anything ; I told you every- 
thing.” 

“ So I thought,” was written on Tom’s face 
opposite. 

‘‘And who told Lady Sophia Clarke ?” ex- 
claimed he, suddenly. 

The other two looked at each other. “Not 
I,” said Jessop. Then “Not I,” echoed This- 
tleblow, somewhat faintly. 

But anon he paused. “ I might have men- 
tioned it to Sir Robert,” he murmured. 

“ It comes then to this,” said Tom Barnet, 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


291 


throwing back his head and breathing disdain, 
“ that General Thistleblow hears casually in a 
public place a Stafford talked of — ’’ 

“ They said ^ Maurice.’ I could swear they 
said ^ Maurice.’ ” 

“ Maurice, if you like. Anyhow, you hear 
a Maurice Stafford spoken of as a drinking, 
gambling, betting scoundrel ; you find him at 
my house neither drinking, gambling, nor bet- 
ting, but you choose to believe he is the scoun- 
drel.” 

“ I know that he left the service, and I heard 
it said that he was turned out of it. What is 
more, I believe the last,” maintained Thistle- 
blow defiantly. A man does not throw u]) 
his commission for nothing.” 

Have we got to the bottom of the whole ? 
Have I anything more to hear ? ” 

“ It is enough as it is, one would think.” 
Jessop recovering, tried a weak sneer. 

“ Well, then,” said Tom, putting his hand in 
his breast pocket, “ as I have got other things 
to attend to, we may as well cut this short. I 
am glad I looked in, however. This slander ” 
— looking round with an eye beneath wdiich 


292 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


those of the other men sank, is of more con- 
sequence than I thought. You, at any rate. 
General Thistleblow, as you have been at the 
pains to spread about a false, malicious, dam- 
nable report, are bound to contradict it. I say, 
sir, you are bound to do this. It is a lie from 
beginning to end. Staifford’s brother has been 
mistaken for him, and Statford has had to bear 
the brunt. If you don’t believe me, I have two 
letters here, one from my Cambridge chum, 
Theobald Mellor, who is old Mr. Stalford’s near 
neighbour, and the other from the colonel of 
Maurice Stalford’s regiment. I had inquired 
of the colonel into the cause of Stalford’s re- 
signing. I am not quite such a booby as to 
make friends with a man and know absolutely 
nothing about him, General Thistleblow. I 
can’t show you these letters because they are 
marked ^ Private,’ but this is Mr. Mellor’s ad- 
dress, and Colonel Wallace is in town. I am 
going to see him this afternoon, and — and — 
3’ou can ask him any questions you like about 
Maurice Stafford, that’s all.” 

“ I know Colonel Wallace,” said little Jes* 
sop, looking rather frightened. Of course 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


293 


we take your word, Barnet. Ton my word, 
I’m very sorry, but I do assure you I only 
wrote out of ” 

“Friendship? ” said Tom, cocking his eye at 
him. 

“ Friendship ! ” echoed Greneral Thistleblow, 
scornfully. He was glad to have some one to 
scorn. “Not he! Dash it all, Jessop, don’t 
stand cringing there. You know as well as 
I do who it was that set you on. It was to 
oblige that old harridan. Lady Sophia Clarke, 
that you ” 

“ She almost made me do it, she did indeed, 
Barnet. I did not want to meddle ; I have no 
wish to make myself disagreeable.” 

“ Nor any need to try,” growled Thistleblow. 

“ But Lady Sophia was so concerned about 
your sister.” 

“ Confound you ! My sister ! If you re- 
peat my sister’s name again ” Tom sprang 

to his feet. Then he gulped down something 
in his throat and put his hands on the back of 
the chair in front of him. “ You have got to 
go with me to Lady Sophia Clarke’s now,” he 
said, quietly. 


294 


THE OHE GOOD GUEST. 


For once in liis life Jessop would liave given 
the world not to have gone near the corner 
house in Chesterfield Gardens, but it was no 
avail to struggle. “You have got to go, and 
it is the least you can do,” said Tom; “and 
General Thistleblow, when — ah — will you see 
Sir Robert?” 

General Thistleblow turned slowly round, 
and looked the young man in the face. 

“Within the hour,” he said, emphatically, 
“ and Tom Barnet, hark ye, I have more re- 
spect for you this day than I ever thought to 
have in my life. Damme ! you have acted like 
your father’s son. You have been rude to me, 
dashed rude, and I like you for it. We’ll be 
better friends in future. I feel I have made 
a thundering old fool of myself, and I’m not 
ashamed to own as much. Give me your hand, 
my hoy, and if I have done my best to take 
away the character of your friend, you will see 
that 1 shall do all I can to put it back again. 
You go at Lady Sophia with half the pluck 
you went at me, and she’ll wither before you. 
And good speed to you, my lad — God bless 
ye ! God bless ye ! ” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


295 


“ Poor old fellow ! ” said Tom to himself, 
and the very next person who had woodcock 
sent up from DuckhiJl Manor was General 
Thistleblow. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


COLONEL Wallace’s testimony. 

After all, Colonel Jessop did not have a 
bad time of it in Chesterfield Gardens. It 
was something to be in a scrape along with a 
woman of Lady Sophia Clarke’s standing, and 
it was something yet more to see her ladyship 
struggling to get out of it. He could never 
have hoped to behold the colour come and go 
on a brow usually so imperious ; nor to hear 
confusion in the voice to whose behests all 
around were wont to bow. 

Having had his own share of the whipping, 
he almost enjoyed seeing his noble accomplice 
under castigation. 

She had been worse than he ; he had merely 
cackled over the humour of a piece of ill- 
natured gossip, whereas Lady Sophia had 
taken pleasure in its sting. Well did he recol- 
lect how resolute she had been that he should 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


297 


bear his part in the transaction. She was to 
write to Ida; he to Tom. Neither of them had 
consulted General Thistleblow, who, truth to 
tell, did not know that anyone else had been 
before him in the field ; and altliough Jessop’s 
sole reason for silence had been his desire to 
keep dark his growing intimacy with the 
Clarkes, respecting which Thistleblow was al- 
ready caustic and jealous. Lady Sophia’s reti- 
cence was less innocent. She feared lest any- 
thing should transpire to mar her triumph; 
lest Sir Robert or General Thistleblow should 
either of them qualify the accusation which 
had served her purpose so well. Men, she 
averred, would tell you a thing one day, and 
the next would eat their own words. She had 
known Sir Robert do as much before. And 
though Sir Robert was as positive in the pres- 
ent instance as she had ever known him to 
be about anything, it was as likely as not 
that he would turn round if spoken to on 
the subject again, and vow that Thistleblow 
was a mere wind-bag, as all Liberal-Unionists 
were. 

Accordingly she had taken measures not to 


298 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


be baulked of her revenge. While she could 
honestly present Stafford in odious colours she 
would make haste to do so ; and if anything 
came out in palliation of his offences after- 
wards, she would in justice also let it be 
known. But write she must ; and she had, as 
we know, seen to it that Jessop should write 
in the same strain by the same post. Lady 
Sophia had then straightened her back, and 
felt that she had done her duty. 

Having thought of the task as her duty,” 
both before and after it was accomplished, at 
the end of a week the “ duty ” had come to look 
so positive and imperative in the retrospect, 
that it was without the slightest qualm of con- 
science or tremor of expectation that she be- 
held her young cousin enter her morning room, 
even at an hour so early as to betoken some- 
thing unusual in the visit. 

Doubtless he had come to inquire, to beg 
advice, to express gratitude. Seeing Tom in 
the company of Colonel Jessop confirmed all 
three suppositions. 

Had she noted Jessop’s expression of coun- 
tenance, indeed, she might there have read how 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


299 


widely different was the state of the case ; but 
Lady Sophia was not a person to observe any 
one’s expression. 

She was thus entirely unprepared for the 
scene which followed, and which, as we have 
said, the treacherous Jessop enjoyed. Every 
now and then he stole a glance at his noble 
patroness, and every glance refreshed his soul. 
Lady Sophia’s colour mounted higher and 
higher, and her discomfiture grew more and 
more unconcealed as the moments passed. 

At length, however, she put foidh an effort 
on her own behalf. 

As a near relative I might be supposed to 
have some interest in the case. You blame me 
for opening the eyes of our dear Ida, when I 
did but follow the promptings of my own con- 
science towards a motherless girl. If Ida had 
been my child, do you suppose I would have 
wished her to place her affections on a worth- 
less wretch ? My affection for Ida would not 
permit me to stand by idly.” Her voice was 
beginning to regain its own hard, unwavering 
tones, — but for once Lady Sophia had met her 
match. She had mistaken Tom Barnet when 


300 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


she thought she could treat him and his with 
contempt. 

“ I think, Lady Sophia, the less said about 
your affection for Ida, or for any one of my sis- 
ters, the better,” said Tom, in accents as hard 
as her own, and having in them moreover a 
ring of profound derision. “ It was not a par- 
ticularly kind thing to do to a ‘ motheiless 
girl ’ to tell her slap out that the man you 
thought she cared for was all that was bad ; 
and if your conscience prompted you to do 
that, it ouglit to prompt you now to make 
the only reparation you can for being so 
cruel.” 

So cruel ! By Jove ! ” whispered Jessop, 
catching his breath.) 

“ You forget yourself altogether to — to 
speak to me like this,” fumbled Lady Sophia, 
all unused to being thus bearded in ker own 
den. “ I — I must say I never heard a — a 
young man forget himself as you are doing.” 

“ It’s very likely,” replied Tom, calmly. 
“ But whatever I may forget, I know what I 
have got to remember, and it is this. As you 
have blackened Maurice Stafford’s reputation 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


301 


to US, I daresay you have done it to other peo- 
ple. Oh, you have ! ” (catching an expression 
which flitted across her face) I thought it 
was very likely. Now look here. Lady Sophia, 
it is a very awkward thing to take away a 
man’s character. You must oblige me by or- 
dering your carriage and going round among 
your acquaintances this afternoon, and telling 
them all in every house you go to that you 
have been under a mistake as regards my 
friend. I am sure you will,” keeping his eye 
upon her as she made a restive movement, be- 
cause it will save me — you understand. Lady 
Sophia — it will save me from doing it my- 
self.” 

Gad ! I never saw a woman so caught in 
her own trap ! ” inwardly ejaculated Jessop.) 

A happy thought, however, occui*red to her 
ladyship. “ It is impossible for me to do what 
you ask, Tom,” she observed almost blandly. 

Knuckling under, by Jove ! ” chuckled Jes- 
sop.) “ Having heard what I heard from Sir 
Kobert, his lips only can unsay it. If he as- 
sures me I have been mistaken, can you doubt 
my readiness to make the amende honorable f'‘'‘ 


302 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


(“ He does not doubt your making it, 
madam, he does not doubt that in the slight- 
est,” sneered Jessop, silently. ‘‘But if my 
eyes don’t play me false. Master Tom doubts 
your readiness as much as I do. You’re regu- 
larly nailed this time, my lady — nailed — that’s 
what you are.”) 

“ When will Sir Eobert be in ? ” demanded 
Tom, abruptly. 

“ I really don’t know. He usually is out till 
luncheon.” 

“ Will he be found at his club ? ” 

“ Oh, yes — to a certainty.” 

“ General Thistleblo\y has found him there 
then,” said Tom, “ and you will be able to de- 
cide on your line of action when he comes in. 
You will hear from him the truth of what I 
have told you.” 

“ You will not stay to see him yourself ? ” 
murmured Lady Sophia, feebly ; “ luncheon 
will be up almost immediately.” Not that she 
wanted him to stay, but she was frightened 
into a desperate civility. 

“I am afraid I cannot stay. Lady Sophia, 
nor can Colonel Jessop. He has promised to 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


303 


go with me to meet another gentleman who is 
also concerned in this affair. I particularly 
wish Colonel Jessop to hear what Stafford’s 
brother officers think of him, and we are go- 
ing now to the Naval and Military, where I 
learned this morning that Colonel Wallace 
was expected in the course of the day — proba- 
bly about two o’clock.” 

Lady Sophia glanced at Jessop. She was 
longing for him to stay and for Tom to go; 
dying to pour forth her indignation, her in- 
credulity, and her resentment behind the aveng- 
ing back of her tormentor; but she did not 
dare to make the suggestion — nor did Jessop. 
Tom had cowed them both to their inmost 
fibres. 

We may as well be going, I think,” said 
the boy, rising. At another time he would 
have waited for his companion to rise, or for 
his hostess to give the signal of dismissal. As 
it was he took the lead ; he was the only hon- 
est person present, and he scorned the other 
two. 

And they saw he did, and accepted the con- 
tempt. 


304 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“ Come along, Colonel,” said Tom. “ Good- 
bye, Lady Sophia. My kind regards to Sir 
Robert.” And he marched head in air down 
the broad staircase, and past the lacqueys who 
held open the door. But he did not go away 
with a glow at his heart as he had done from 
his first interview. He had only crushed Lady 
Sophia. She had emitted no noble spark be- 
neath the blow. 

As for Jessop, he despised Jessop too cor- 
dially to expect anything good from such a 
source, and he only tethered the spiteful little 
backbiter to his side, in order primarily to 
drive the last nail into the coffin of the slander, 
and secondly to deprive Lady Sophia of any 
support she might have received from the 
presence and sympathy of her fellow conspira- 
tor. 

It must be owned that* Tom did the thing 
thoroughly. He was not of a vengeful nature, 
but many emotions combined to make him un- 
sparing of himself and others on the present 
occasion. 

Ida, his dearly loved sister Ida, had been put 
to the blush, affronted, insulted, and forced to 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


305 


behave unwarrantably in her own defence; Staf- 
ford had been traduced and maligned ; and he 
himself had been wounded in his tenderest 
point. 

He was conscious of a desire to show of 
what stuff he was made ; and for the benefit of 
our readers we may add that no one of those 
with whom he came in contact on that Decem- 
ber day ever had the slightest doubt about it 
afterwards. 

The anxious civility, almost subservience of 
Lady Sophia Clarke, whenever Tom Barnet 
entered her reception i*ooms in the future, was 
a matter of wonder to many; while Jessop 
would have fetched and carried for him like a 
dog; and Greneral Thistleblow, very red in the 
face whenever his late ward’s name was men- 
tioned, would puff and blow, and' blurt out as 
fast as tongue could speak : ‘‘ The finest young 
fellow’ in the world, Tom Barnet. The very 
image of his dear old dad. Bless my soul ! I 
wish we had a few more such young men now- 
adays.” 

To return, however, to Piccadilly on the 

afternoon in question. By good hap not only 
20 


306 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Colonel Wallace but several of his subordinate 
officers were in the hall of the club when Tom 
Barnet and his companion entered. 

“You know Colonel Wallace?” said Tom, 
still retaining the command which he had as- 
sumed from the first. “If he is here — oh, that 
is he, is it ? Introduce me, will you ? ” 

Jessop meekly did so. He told Thistleblow 
afterwards that the youngster’s bow was a 
treat to see. 

Colonel Wallace, however, seemed very well 
pleased to see the treat. As soon as he caught 
the name, which had to be repeated twice, for 
he was a little deaf, his countenance lighted 
up, and he extended a hearty hand. 

“ Mr. Barnet ? Oh, yes, of course. A friend 
of Stafford’s. Delighted to see you. We are 
just going in to luncheon; will you join us? 
These are some more of Stafford’s brother 
officers — late brother officers, I should say — 
more’s the pity ! We miss Maurice. He was 
as good as an oil can in the regiment ; always 
in good humour, and never had an ill word for 
anybody. Eh ? Oh, you must,” as Tom made 
as though he would have declined the luncheon. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


307 


come aloDg in,” continued the speaker, taking 
by the arm the only half -reluctant youth. ‘‘ I 
should have been so sorry to miss you.” Then 
in a lower tone, “ It’s all right about Stafford, 
I hope ? You found my letter satisfactory ? If 
nofc, here are these others, you know. Camber- 
well, and White — both knew him well. You 
can have a word with them if you desire it.” 

“ Not in the least,” replied the young man, 
warmly, but also subduing his tones so as to be 
inaudible behind. ^ “ I require nothing more, 
unless perhaps ” — he hesitated — “ unless you 
could just lead these gentlemen into talking of 
Stafford in a friendly way before Colonel Jes- 
sop. 

“ Eh ? Was it he ? ” A nudge and a huge 
whisper. Oh, the little beast,” as Tom’s face 
showed assent. “ Oh, we’ll soon settle him,” 
proceeded his new friend with infinite con- 
tempt. “ Mixed up the brothers, I s’pose, and 
wasn’t sorry to do it, eh ? Just like him. He 

always was a Now then, gentlemen, 

where will you sit ? Mr. Barnet, sit by me. 
What a pity that Stafford is not here. He 
lunched with me three days ago ” 


308 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


Tom looked up quickly. 

I tried to get him to stop up in town a bit,” 
proceeded the speaker as seriously as though 
he had been speaking the exact truth. “ But 
he is so devilish run after that he never has a 
day to himself. He was otf somewhere or other 
— to some big place or other — in the afternoon. 
Never knew a fellow in such request. He was 
a dead loss to the regiment, was he not, Cam- 
l)erwell ? The most popular man we had, eh. 
White?” 

“ All the same, it was a bit of blarney about 
the big houses,” confided the burly colonel 
aside to his neighbour; between you and me, 
Stafford seemed rather at a loose end, and not 
to know very well what to do with himself. 
It ended in his going down to his own place ; 
where I gather he was not precisely wanted. 
He has had a row with his young scamp of a 
brother, and the father takes the scamp’s part, 
as fathers will. A weak-minded old creature, 
rather touched in the head, I fancy. If you 
want Stafford, you will find him in Norfolk. 
I can give you the address.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Tom. “ I do want him.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


309 


“ So I shan’t get back to-night,” reflected he. 
“ I made sure Maurice was in town. It is no 
great matter ; those folks at Duckbill won’t 
stickle about a single day. And I have got to 
find this chap, and make my apologies, if I can 

do no more. Of course if I can do more ” 

Then he paused. Poor Ida ! ” — another pause 
— “ Poor girl ! How I should like to take him 
back to her ! To appear together, we two, 
when they are only expecting one ! To show 
her that for all she is so clever, thei*e are some 
things that need a man ! It’s a man’s business 
I am on now.” 

And at this point he found everyone laugh- 
ing because Colonel Wallace had made a joke, 
and under cover of the joke the luncheon was 
over, and all were rising from the table. 

An afternoon train conveyed our young 
traveller down to Norfolk, and his destination 
was reached in what he felt to be good time 
for dinner. Heartily, liowevei-, did he wish the 
next half-hour over, and dinner on the table. 
It was almost as bad as the arrival feeling he 
had experienced at Pine Ridge. 

There was a disconsolate look about the 


310 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


place too. It was not well kept up ; tlie lodge 
gates stood open, not as though many vehicles 
were in the habit of passing through, but rather 
as if it were worth no one’s while to shut them. 
There were no cheerful lights twinkling from 
the windows. The door bell was not responded 
to for a very long time. 

When at length a respectable looking man 
with a beard, and in the garb of a gamekeeper, 
unlocked the door, Tom felt sure something 
was wrong; nor was he deceived by a2')pear- 
ances. The house was shut up ; the gentlemen 
were away ; Mr. Maurice had run down a few 
nights before, but had left on the Friday morn- 
ing. Interrogated, he did not know precisely 
where Mr. Maurice had gone, but thought Mr. 
Mellor might know. He had seen the two 
speaking to each other on the road ; Mr. Mellor 
lived only a little over two miles away, (sug- 
gestively). 

What could a poor belated traveller do than 
take so obvious a hint ? The horse’s head was 
turned in the direction indicated. “ And here 
am I rolling through this Norfolk mud on a 
beastly cold, dark night, behind a lialf -blown 


THE ONE QOOI) GUEST. 


311 


brute that goes lame, and may come to a stand- 
still any moment, not knowing where I am go- 
ing, or what sort of a welcome I may find ! ” 
cogitated Tom Barnet, “ all because I have got 
a hot-headed sister who couldn’t trust her 
brother, but took him for a fool, as all the 
rest did. I think I have shown a good many 
people I am not a fool during the last few 
hours ; but I have got to show one or two 
more yet. Is this the place ? ” 

It was the place, and the place and the wel- 
come were all they should have been. He was 
secure of a night’s lodging and every comfort 
— but in regard to Maurice Stafford, his host 
could not say with positiveness where Maurice 
Stafford had gone. Maurice had talked about 
Southampton; he almost thought he had said 
he was going to Southampton ; but, anyhow, it 
could be easily found out whether he had done 
so or not, since the speaker knew the people to 
whom his friend had gone, provided Southamp- 
ton at all had been his destination. He would 
telegraph in the morning. 

In the morning he did telegraph, and the 
reply came back within the hour. ‘‘Was 


312 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


here. But left early this morning for Lon- 
don.’’ 

Left for London ? That was lucky. Soutli* 
ampton had staggered Tom in spite of himself ; 
but he would have had to go to London at all 
events before returning to Duckhill. He took 
a grateful leave, and departed on his new quest. 
Fortune favoring him, he would catch up with 
Stafford in time for the night train north. 


CHAPTER XX. 


CONCLUSION. 

A MORE amiable set of people could not 
have been gathered together than the deserted 
house-party now at Duckbill, but if it be true 
that even a worm will turn at last, still more 
is this the case when one worm meets another 
and demands, “ Has not the time come for 
turning ? When do you begin to turn? ” 

It is really more than one ought to stand,” 
quoth Mr. John Lytton at last, when the fifth 
day came and no Tom re-appeai*ed, nor could 
any reason, to be called a reason, be given for 
such extraordinary and neglectful conduct. 
Uncle Jack was the most placable of human 
beings, and as for aunt Bess, if Ida had only 
confided in her, she would have been one vast 
gush of sympathy and consolation. Unfortu- 
nately it was precisely this gush which was 
dreaded, feared, and resolved against. What- 


314 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


ever happened, Ida’s aunt should never know 
what Ida was now suffering. 

Ida’s face grew long and white as the days 
passed. To her Tom was cheery and sanguine, 
but he wrote the truth ; he was still looking 
for Maurice Stafford, and, do what he would, 
he could not find him. Maurice * Stafford 
seemed to have disappeared off the face of the 
earth. Wherever Tom went he found traces, 
still warm, of the friend he was pursuing ; but 
as certainly did the traces vanish into thin air 
directly he thought they were leading him 
straight to his mark. Had he known what a 
wildgoose chase it was to be, when first he 
started, he felt that it would have been better 
for him to have gone straight home, after ex- 
ploding his bombshell among the traducers ; 
but he had been led on, step by step, expecting 
each to be the last, till really he did not like to 
be baulked in the long run, and accordingly he 
would stay up one day longer, he wrote on the 
Friday morning, and if he could not lay hold 
of Stafford that day, nothing should prevent 
his leaving town on Saturday morning, and 
being with his own peoj^le by nightfall. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


315 


Ida hardly knew how to make this an- 
nouncement, nor what to think of it herself. 
It would be dreadful to have her brother come 
back baffled, and powerless to do more than 
had been done already ; but each day that de- 
tained him on his quest was growing more and 
more uncomfortable for those left in the lurch 
by his absence. Her uncles and aunts had al- 
most ceased to make remarks when she had, 
perforce, to own that no Tom was to be ex- 
pected each day ; her cousins, Maud and Caro- 
line, who had begun by feigning pique, had 
only too obviously no further need of pretence 
in the matter; the very boys wondered loudly 
what was up : while Jenny and Louie hardly 
durst mention their brother’s name, and con- 
necting his protracted absence with Ida’s wan 
looks and short answers, were disloyal for the 
first time in their lives, 

“We have been a fortnight here, during 
which time my nephew, who asked us down 
and whose house we ai*e in, has given us his 
company for two half days,” observed the el- 
der of the two uncles at last. “My wife and I 
and our daughters will leave to morrow morn- 


316 


THE ONE 00 on QUEST. 


ing, and Ida may make what apologies she 
chooses to Tom on his return.” 

“ It strikes me that he is the person who 
ought to apologise,” bluntly rejoined the other. 
‘‘ If you go, Reginald, we go too. I don’t in- 
tend my family to be held cheap any more 
than you do yours. As for this business of 
Tom’s — I stood by him wdien he said business 
called him, and it was only for a day — I 
thought all the better of the lad for dashing 
off again, vile weather though it was, rather 
than lose his market for wdiatever it was he 
had on hand — but ^ business ’ that he either 
can’t or won’t explain, and that even his sister 
is as mute as a fish about, ought — ought — ’pon 
my word — Tom ought to be ashamed of him- 
self. I don’t know what he is up to, but this 
I do know, we pack, bag and baggage, to- 
morrow morning.” 

“And really I cannot ask your uncle to 
stay,” asserted Ida’s aunt, when delivering this 
ultimatum, “ for though Christmas is so near, 
and w^e might all have been so happy together, 
Tom’s extraordinary conduct — I must call it 
extraordinary, my dear Ida — has so put youi* 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


317 


uncle out, that nothing I could say or do 
would keep him now. And, indeed, I must 
own — ahem ! — that it is dull, a little dull, in a 
house where the master is away. We do not 
seem as if we quite knew what to do with our- 
selves. One ought not to be invited down, 
and then absolutely deserted, you know, Ida.” 

It was hard upon Ida to witness such mani- 
fest mortification, and to know how vexed and 
ashamed Tom would be — must be, indeed, as it 
was — and all on her account. But she could 
not confide in aunt Bess. The more she 
thought of it the less she felt she could do it. 
What could she say? Own that under a false 
impression she .had driven Maurice Stafford 
from the house, and that she was now break- 
ing her* heart to get him back again ? Own 
that Tom in his goodness, and kindness, and 
straightforwardness, was hunting Stafford from 
place to place, and throwing eveiy other con- 
sideration to the winds in his dogged resolve 
to get hold of him by some means or other ? 
Not she. It made her wince and shrink within 
herself that even Tom should know how re- 
morseful were her feelings : and a dozen times 


318 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST 


a day slie was fain to dash off a peremptory 
command for her brother’s return — but anon 
would rise the hope that every post might 
bring better news, and again the haunting fear 
lest, if Stafford were not now found — found 
at once, and while still smarting from his 
wounds, they might heal, and he be lost to her 
for ever. 

“ He may go off no one knows where ; and 
even if it be not to any far-off place, or for any 
great length of time, still a few months’ ab- 
sence would make it impossible for Tom to 
rake up a trifling incident, and apologise for 
a sister’s ignorance of the world. It would 
seem to be making too much of the affair : 
seem as if we had all been brooding over it, 
and magnifying it — oh, it could not be done,” 
cried she, in bitter musings. 

“ Tom must find him now — or never ; if once 
Tom comes back to Duckhill without Maurice 
Stafford, we shall never, never, never see him 
here again.” 

And back to Duckhill Tom had to come 
without Maurice Stafford. 

‘‘ It seemed well-nigh incredible, but it was 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


319 


SO. No one could help him, and at last he 
came to a point where he could no longer help 
himself. 

So far he had conducted his mysterious 
search on strictly commonplace principles. 

Had any one seen Stafford ? ” He, Tom 
Barnet, was in town for a few days, and heard 
that Stafford was up too. Could any one tell 
him where to find his friend ? 

At first everybody could tell him — subse- 
quently nobody. It appeared as if Maurice, 
on returning south, had instantly reappeared 
in all his special haunts ; a dozen men called 
upon each other to say that each had seen him 
— and each had. The farmer who was now 
the recognised tenant of Beech Farm had a great 
deal to say about the gentleman who had looked 
in on him on the Monday morning, ten days 
before, and assured him that something must 
have gone wrong with his letter — owing doubt- 
less to the postal interruptions consequent on 
the frost — for that Mr. Barnet was quite ready 
to accede to his terms, and sign the lease. The 
gentleman had been very fi*ank and agreeable ; 
and afterwards Mr. Trusty had expressed him- 


320 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


self as under an obligation to Mr. Maun'ce 
StafPord, — but after lie bad seen the back of 
Mr. Stafford’s blue overcoat descending the 
house steps, he had set eyes on him no more. 

All at once it seemed to Tom that no one had 
set eyes on Maurice more. He did not think 
any mischance had happened to Maurice ; he 
was not of an imaginative nor melodramatic 
nature ; but he did feel as Ida felt, that did he 
once let go his hold on the present opportunity, 
it was one which he might never in all after 
time regain. ‘ 

Years, or even months, afterwards, he could 
hardly go up to a guest who had probably 
in the interim succeeded in forgetting a pain- 
ful episode, with explanations and apologies. 
These offered at once miglit have had, and 
probably would have had, all the effect hoped 
for ; but if tardily tendered, or only tendered 
at all, supposing accident or chance threw the 
two together, would not Stafford be justified in 
supposing that, rude as had been his awaken- 
ing, Ida had yet meant to awake him from a 
dream ? 

Stung to the quick by the thought which 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


3 ^ 


loomed gigantic — as such thoughts are apt to 
do — in a mind ill at ease, it is not to be won- 
dered at that lesser considerations gave way 
before it. A fortnight ago and Tom Barnet 
could not have believed that he should hear of 
the break up of his second house-party with so 
little regret; but he was sick at heart, and all 
the eclat of his primal success in town was 
wiped out by the disastrous failure which fol- 
lowed. 

A gloomy reaction set in. “ Let them go ! ” • 
he muttered, when the news came that one and 
all were on the eve of departure from Duckhill. 

Let them go ! They are as bad as the first 
lot. They have no patience — no confidence in 
a fellow. They might have guessed I was in a 
hole, and that it was rough upon me, and not 
have thought only of their own selfish selves. 

I shall be glad to be alone when I get back. 
Ida won’t blame me, anyhow — she knows I 
have done what I can ; I have worried here 
and I have worried there, and bothered with 
trains and telegrams, and never once been near 
Margaret ! Ida knows about Margaret now, 

and that is one comfort. Well,” after a pause; 

21 


322 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“ well, I’ll go home ! Home is the best place, 
after all.” 

Going home he had a long nap in the train. 
He was really wearied out with disappoint- 
ment and vexation of spirit ; and once asleep 
in a warm, quiet railway carriage, which had 
only a single other occupant quiescent as him- 
self, he slumbered soundly from point to point. 

It grew dark outside. 

“We are late,” said Tom, waking up with a ' 
long yawn, as the train drew near his station 
at last. “ Five o’clock, by Jove ! It is such a 
clear night I should not have supposed it was 
so much.” 

“ A moon, too,” observed his fellow-ti*aveller. 

“ The frost is gone for this winter, I suspect ; 
and a good riddance, too. But these sharp 
December frosts never last. They say if you 
skate before Christmas you get precious little 
skating afterwards.” 

“We had only one day,” observed Tom. 

“ Had you, indeed ? ” 

“ Only this day fortnight. Jove ! what a 
long time ago it seems ! That hard Saturday, 
you know.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


323 


“I know. I remember. We all tkonglit 
that frost was going to hold.” 

“ So did we.” And that other things 
were going to 4iold,’ too,” silently appended 
poor Tom, looking ruefully out.) Here we 
are ! ” he added a minute afterwards. “ This 
is my station. Thanks,” as the other offered 
to hold his bag while he alighted. “ Those are 
my sticks, too. Thank you. Good night.” 

He stepped out upon the platform, and 
looked round. A figure emerged from the 
gathering darkness, and as it moved towards 
him he recognised the light tread of his sister 
Ida. She had come to meet him alone. A 
pang shot through his heart at the sight. 

It was best to say nothing; she would see • 
for herself that he had no good news to tell ; 
and for her own sake he would not assume 
that she had come in search of any, good or 
bad. He felt as if silence were the only 
weapon by which he could crush the last germ 
of hope in Ida’s breast. 

“You did not bring any one down with 
you,” he said at last. It was the only thing 
he could think of to say. 


324 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“ The girls are spending the day at the vicar- 
age; they are to be brought back before we 
get home,” was the reply. 

‘‘ Oh. And the others are actually gone ? 
Well, I am glad, on the whole. Their ques- 
tioning would have been a nuisance. Yes, 
that’s my portmanteau ; all right, John,” to the 
porter. “ Put it in the carriage. What carri- 
age have you got down, Ida ? The dog-cart ? ” 

“Yes, the dog-cart. The roads are quite 
open now. I took a round before coming 
here.” 

“ Did you ? ” said Tom, absently. “ The rest 
left this morning, then? Well, I am glad of 
it,” he repeated. “ I don’t feel in the mood for 
them, that’s a fact; and I dare swear they 
don’t feel in the mood for me. We shall be. 
best by ourselves, Ida.” 

“ Unless,” said Ida, slowly, “unless, perhaps, 
we — we might have one — just one — good — 
guest.” / 

“Well, you know, I — of course, I know 
whom you mean — and Ida, I am most awfully 
sorry, but — good God ! ” exclaimed Tom, start- 
ing back with almost a shriek as the two 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


325 


emerged from tlie station entrance, and fronted 
the roadside, Who — who is that ? Who have 
you got there ? ” 

The light was almost gone, but some one 
was standino^ at the horse’s head whose dim 
outline was more appalling than if it had been 
that of a ghost. 

“ Come and see who I have got,'’ said Ida, 
laying her hand on her brother’s arm, for he 
had stopped short where he stood. “ We have 
been deserted for the second time, Tom ; but 
once again ” 

“Stafford!” cried Tom, bursting from her. 
“ Stafford 1 ” 

“ We have been playing at hide and seek, 
Tom,” said Stafford, turning round with a 
smile of broad content. “ I don’t know what I 
ought to say to you for all the trouble I have 
given, but I will say anything you like if you 
will only let me stay ” 

“ But, good Heavens ! ” cried Tom, again. 
“ Ida,” turning to her, “ was it this you meant ? 
Did you know? But of course you knew. 
What I mean is,” trying hard to shape ques- 
tions and comments, so as to make them accord 


32G 


THE ONE GOOD OUEHT. 


with discretion. “ What I am trying to say 
is, when did he come ? ” 

“ Three hours ago, Tom.” 

“ And — and ? ” He looked from one to 

the other. 

And I have apologised for my rude be- 
haviour,” sparkled Ida, brimming with demure 
mischief, “ and he has forgiven me, though I 
have had to promise that I will never treat 
Ijim so again.” Then she came close to them 
both, and murmured softly, “ It is all right, 
dear Tom. Maurice knows eveiy thing. And 
— we — we ” 

If it has got to being ^ we,’ ” cried Tom, 
with a laugh of pleasure, ‘‘ I had better take a 
back seat,” putting his bag on the cushions, 
preparatory to suiting his action to the word. 
‘‘ Dickybird won’t stand any longer, Maurice ; 
up you get, Ida ; we must talk when we get 
home. Jove, how you startled me, though ! ” 
■as he stepped into his seat, and Maurice came 
round to his, “ I can’t get over it. I — quiet, 
now, Dicky — quiet, now — give him his head, 
Maurice ; he’s only playing,” and away they 
bounded into the dim country beyond. 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


327 


It was impossible, however, for curiosity to 
remain silent many minutes, and accordingly, 
“Just tell me where he came from, and what 
he has been doing, Ida ? ” insinuated Tom, 
edging himself round. “ You tell me, and let 
Maurice mind his driving.” 

“ He came from only ten miles off, Tom,” 
nodded Ida over her shoulder. “ He has been 
there since Wednesday. He came back to 
wait in the neighbourhood.” 

“ To wait for what ? ” 

“ Till all of them had gone,” replied his 
sister, too happy to be shy. “ He did not 
wish to encounter uncle Jack, and aunt Bess, 
and ” 

“ Speak the truth, young lady.” All at once 
dulness itself could have recognised the ac- 
knowledged lover in Maurice Stafford’s accents. 
“ It was not that ‘ he did not wish to encounter ’ 
all these people, but he had a notion that some 
one else, who was in command at Duckhill, 
would not choose that he should. You see, 
Tom, as soon as I got back to town and put two 
and two together, I hit on the truth like light- 
ning. It did not require a very Solomon to do 


328 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


this, for I had not been up three days, before I 
encountered old Wallace, who began inquiring 
about you, and all that was going on here. 
Quiet now. Dickybird, quiet,” as the horse shied 
at a forked branch, ghostly in the moonlight, 
“ and then as soon as ever I went down to my 
father’s, there w^as Mellor with the same sort of 
unaccountable interest in my friends at Duck- 
hill,” pursued Maurice. The only mistake I 
made was in supposing you had instituted in- 
quiries after hearing from your London friends 
instead of before. But when I saw it all, as I 
thought, I came straight down to these parts, 
meaning to look you up at once, for I thought 
you might have got home ; and behold you 
were away again ! I learned that fact at the 
post-office. That meant Duckhill w^as still a 
barred fortress to me, did it not ? ” bending 
down towards the figure by his side, with a 
softeniug of the tone which her ear alone could 
catch. 

“So then I had to retreat,” continued the 
narrator, “ and await the return of its rightful 
lord, who I knew would give a poor man a fair 
hearing.” 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


329 


Aha ! I told you that, Ida,” from Tom 
behind. 

^‘That dear enchantress. Madam Bowdler, 
your friend and mine, Tom,” pursued Stafford, 
“ wired me this mornins: that the coast was 
clear. I did not need to be told twice. By 
two o’clock I was at Duckbill — how jolly the 
old place looked ! — not a soul was about ! I 
rang the bell like a thief, and Bichards looked 
as if he thought me one ! He said he would 
tell Miss Barnet, — she was in the boudoir, — no 
one else was at home. Do you think I let him 
tell, Tom ? ” And the speaker again stooped 
to smile into the nearer pair of eyes. 

“ It was just like to-day — just,” murmured 
Ida, shining back upon him. 

“ This day fortnight ? That day of horrors ? ” 
said Stafford. “ So it was — externally. Only 
then all went wrong ; now all is going right.” 

“ Here we are ! ” cried Tom joyously, as they 
dashed up to the door, and here are the girls 
looking out for us ! Hi ! you two, who do you 
think we have got here ? ” 

And the next moment the air \s^as rent by a 
perfect scream of joy. 


380 


THE ONE GOOD GUEST. 


“ It’s oiir own Maurice — our own Maurice 
back again ! Oh, Maurice, they are all gone, 
and you have come back to us ! ” 

There, you see,” said Tom, looking round 
with an air of pride and gladness, ‘Hhat’s what 
they think about it. And let me tell you, 
Maurice, in whatever light you may show your- 
self presently, at Duckhill I believe we shall 
always think chiefly of you in your character 
of our one good guest! ” 



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NEWMAN (CARDINAL). CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAYS. 

2 Volumes. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). DEVELOPMENT OF CHRISTIAN DOC- 
TRINE (An Essay on the). 

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IN CATHOLIC TEACHING CONSIDERED. 2 Volumes. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). DISCUSSIONS AND ARGUMENTS ON 

VARIOUS SUBJECTS. * 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). DISCOURSES ADDRESSED TO MIXED 
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NEWMAN (CARDINAL). GRAMMAR OF ASSENT. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL), HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 3 Volumes. 
NEWMAN (CARDINAL). LOSS AND GAIN: The Story of a Convert. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). PAROCHIAL AND PLAIN SERMONS. 

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the Ecclesiastical Year, from the “ Parochial and Plain Sermons.” 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). SERMONS BEARING UPON SUBJECTS 
OF THE DAY. Edited by the Rev. W. J. Copeland, B.D. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). THE ARIANS OF THE FOURTH CEN- 
TURY. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY DE- 
FINED AND ILLUSTRATED. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). VERSES ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). THE PRESENT POSITION OF CATHO- 
LICS IN ENGLAND. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL), THE VIA MEDIA OF THE ANGLICAN 
CHURCH. Illustrated in Lectures, etc. 

NEWMAN (CARDINAL). TWO ESSAYS ON BIBLICAL AND 
ECCLESIASTICAL MIRACLES. 

STANLEY (BISHOP). FAMILIAR HISTORY OF BIRDS. With 160 
Illustrations. 

WOOD (REV.J. G.) PETLAND REVISITED. With 33 Illustrations. 
WOOD (REV. J. G.) STRANGE DWELLINGS. With 60 Illustrations. 
WOOD (REV.J. G.) OUT OF DOORS. With n Illustrations. 

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO„ 

1 5 East 1 6th Street, New York. 


POLITICAL AMERICANISMS. 

A Glossary of Terms and Phrases Current at Different 
Periods in American Politics. By Charles Ledyard 
Norton. i6mo, ornamental cloth cover, $i.oo. 


“It is impos-sible to look over the columns of a daily journal, especially 
during the progress of a spirited political campaign, without encountering 
numerous expressions and phrases, the meaning of which cannot be learned from 
any dictionary, but which, to one who is familiar with the current argot of the 
period, are often quite as vigorously expressive as the most picturesque slang of 
the streets. The vocabulary of the American politician has indeed become 
copious beyond what is generally believed, and the glossary presented herewith 
lays no claim to exhaustiveness. It includes, however, a number of phrases 
which can be found in no other compilation. , . .” — Extract front Preface, 


“ It will every year have additional value to the student of American political 
history.” — Public Opinion. 

“ It will be found very useful in every library, and will answer many ques- 
tions on the lips of men as well as boys, about the origin and significance of 
words that began as slang and by frequent use have been adopted into the 
language.” — Journal of Commerce. 

“ A welcome addition to current books of reference and will certainly be 

0 

esteemed highly by every student of American politics. . . Whilst Mr. 

Norton’s compilation makes no claim to exhaustiveness, he is right in asserting 
that he has included a number of terms not to be found in any other volume. 
. . Altogether the best of its class and should achieve a decided success.” 

— Beacon. 

“ So fully does this book fill a vacant place in politico-historical literature 
that it is hard to understand why it has only just appeared. . . A book so 

complete that the reader must have a long and quick memory to discover what 
may be lacking. . . The volume is small, for the definitions are short ; the 
work has been done so thoroughly in keeping with the true spirit of dictionary 
making that the reader will not be able to discover the author’s own politics.” 

— N. Y. Herald. 

“ Mr. Norton has done a good work in searching out and explaining a large 
number of expressions which, while they cannot be found in any dictionary, are 
a very important part of ‘Newspaper English.’” — Churchman, 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & GO., 

East; S±2ct;e©a:a.t;Iti. St;.^ USTe-^Ar- 


15 




Tie PlOBsoiliy of Flctioo ia Literatare 

AN ESSAY 

By Daniel Greenleaf Thompson, author of “A 
System of Psychology,” “The Problem of Evil,” “The 
Religious Sentiments of the Human Mind,” etc. i2mo, 
$1.50. 

“ A most interesting work. It goes into the subject — does not skim over it.” 

— Boston Post. 

“The author has contributed to the discussion of fiction in this volume in a 
very suggestive and valuable way. He covers the ground very fully in treating 
the sources, methods, and ends of fiction. His work is clear, comprehensive, 
sensible, and helpful.” — Public Opinion. 


“ The author has sought to classify and describe the functions a work of 
fiction fulfills, the motives and materials with which it deals, and the principles 
by which its construction is governed. This task he has well performed ; his 
method is free from pedantry, his attitude moderate and judicial,” 

— Critic (N. Y.) 

“ Mr. Thompson has written a work of supreme excellence, which cannot 
fail to be of value to every student of literature, no matter what his special voca- 
tion in that line may be. I'he book is one that will repay every young writer 
in its perusal and study. It is clearly reasoned and beautifully written.” 

— Chicago Herald. 

“No more important contribution to literary criticism has been made in 
recent years. . . It is clear cut, sensible (no mean praise) unprejudiced, 

sound.” — The Dial (Chicago). 


“The work done by Mr. Thompson can scarcely be too highly valued. He 
has discussed with absolute fairness and great ability certain important ques- 
tions which have been recently haggled over with vehement declamation by the 
critics of fiction. He has brought to the elucidation of these questions all the 
clearness of vision and broad grasp of the subject which might be expected from 
the author of one of the foremost works on psychology of our time,” 

— Brooklyn Eagle. 

“Mr. Thompson has expressed his thoughts with point and vigor. His 
criticisms of M. Zola’s method . . are admirable and, it seems to us, unanswer- 

able.” — The Academy (Eng.). 

“ His discussion of the question (the relation of art to morals) is bold, sincere, 
liberal, and broad. We regret that we have not been able to call the attention 
of our readers earlier to this excellent book.” — N. Y. Independent. 


Lonomans, Green, & Co , 

1 5 East 1 6th Street, New York. 



f 


WITH MY FRIENDS. 

Tales Told in Partnership. 

BY 

BRANDER MATTHEWS. 

With an Introductory Essay on the Art and Mystery of Collaboration. 


l!2mo, clotli, colored top, $1.00. 


Six tales written in partnership with H. C. Banner, Mr. G. H. 
Jessop, Mr, W. H. Pollock, and Mr. “ F. Anstey,” with an Intro- 
ductory Essay, reprinted from Longmans' Magazine. 


“His collaborators in these clever stories . . . share with Mr. Matthews 

the facility, versatility and lightness of touch that enter so largely into the require- 
ments of the short story. , . . ' The Documents in the Case,’ already well 

known to many readers, is as good a specimen of original and witty story-telling 
as can be found.’’ — Christian Union. 

“Those who read ‘With My Friends’ out of mere curiosity to see ‘ how it is 
done’ may fail to discover where the work fits together, but they will find the vol- 
ume among the most entertaining of the many collections of short stories now pre- 
sented to the public.” — Boston Times. 

“ ‘ With My Friends ’ is an aptly named series of short sketches. . . . ‘ The 

Documents in the Case,’ though familiar to many readers, is so cleverly written 
that it will well repay a second or even a third reading.” — Home Journal. 

“ Exhibits the art of story-making in partnership. They are very good talf j.” 

— N. Y. Forum, 

“ Perhaps the best thing in Mr. Matthews’ book is his own introduction essay 
on ‘The Art and Mystery of Collaboration.’ It is both witty and instructive, and 
the examples of collaboration which follow are so well done that we think it would 
be virtually impossible to distinguish the respective work of the literary partners.” 

— N. Y. TribUiIE. 

“ These stories all differ from one another, and Mr. Matthews is so successful 
in each and every one of his collaborations that it is hard to decide with which author 
the most pleasing result is obtained, . . . the volume is an ideal collection of its 

kind. It will amply repay all those who give it a careful and conscientious reading.” 

— Boston Herald. 

“ All the tales have a liberal fund of humor and some of them are witty, while, of 
course, it is a fascinating problem to determine to which of the authors the different 
elements of attraction belong.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ The stories of the book are meritorious in their way, but the true merit is that 
they are ingenious descriptions of occurrences from different standpoints of fact, of 
imagination, and mental quality. . , , this volume is worth reading.” 

— Commercial Advertiser. 


LONGMANS, 


GREEN, & CO., 

Street, New York. 





1 5 East 1 6th 



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